


House of Cards

by boxparade



Series: White Houses [1]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Date, M/M, Politics, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:50:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Brendon is a music major who works at a diner and Spencer is the culinary arts major who thinks he’s cute. Ryan is all philosophical and kinda creepy (duh) and Jon works for Spencer’s dad, who happens to be the President of the United States.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Cards

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this.
> 
> I was watching West Wing, and then I got to thinking, which is never good, and then I was all "I'm gonna write a cute little ficlet where Brendon accidentally ends up dating the President of the United States' son!" and then...this monstrosity happened.
> 
> Written in a week, unbeta'd. I think I was possessed.

Brendon’s only been working for about ten hours, so it’s not like he’s tired. Not at all. The reason his eyes keep closing on him is because—well, he hasn’t figured that out yet. But he’s sure it’s got nothing to do with him being tired. Absolutely sure.

“Honey, are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Greta blinks at him slowly, and she’s so sweet, really really sweet, so she shouldn’t have to stay late. It’s her anniversary, anyway.

“I’m fine,” Brendon answers with a smile, and he nods Greta toward the break room so she can change and use the last few hours of waking time to cuddle up next to her boyfriend and be all couple-y. She deserves it.

Greta looks weary about the whole thing, but she goes, and Brendon sighs quietly and looks at the clock. Midnight. He’s got two more hours until close and then sweet, sweet sleep. He can do this.

Never mind that they don’t have any customers this time of night. Not when they don’t serve alcohol. Everyone takes off for the bars around ten, and the few late night stragglers they do get are always gone by eleven.

Brendon wipes the counter fruitlessly and leans heavily against the plastic finish, letting his eyes close for just a second.

“Hey,” a voice says a little sharply, like it wasn’t the first time it was said, and Brendon snaps his head up and blinks wearily. He’s—at the diner? But that doesn’t make sense, because he was just having a dream about—shit.

“Sorry!” Brendon says immediately, feeling his cheeks heat, and he hopes like hell the voice isn’t his boss, or he is _so_ fired, and—

“They pay you to sleep?” There’s a young guy blinking at him and smiling, and his eyes are _blueblueblue_ and so fucking pretty, and Brendon doesn’t have time to get distracted.

“Uh, no.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You caught me. Please don’t tell my boss?” Brendon puts on his best pout, toning it down a little because this guy looks young and Brendon doesn’t want to accidentally hit on him when he’s not even awake enough to tell anyone his own age.

The guy shrugs and sits down at the counter, looking down to each end before asking “Do you guys have menus or anything?”

“Oh, yeah!” Brendon says, still frazzled, and rushes toward the table in the corner that no one ever sits at because it’s still got the menu laid out on the table. He doesn’t know where the other ones went. Hopefully he won’t get another customer any time soon.

“Thanks,” the guy says and flips the menu open to the inside. Brendon bites his lip nervously behind the counter, then realizes he’s hovering like a creep and decides to go through and refill all the ketchup bottles, even though they don’t really need to be filled and they work better half-empty anyway. He surreptitiously watches the guy as he chews his lower lip and looks over the menu, occasionally reaching up to tug deft fingers through his hair.

Brendon almost forgets that there’s someone here and it’s not just in his head, so when he hears the guy ask for the number one, he kind of jumps and drops the ketchup bottle. It only spills a little, because these bottles actually fail at pouring, but he wipes it off quickly and walks closer to the customer. He tries to ignore how soft his hair looks.

“Um, we actually don’t serve that right now,” Brendon answers, and he feels sort of bad that this cute guy won’t be getting his food, but Brendon doesn’t know how to cook—doesn’t even know where half the shit is in that mess of a kitchen—and so there’s nothing to be done.

The guy blinks at him, ocean-blue. “Why not?”

“The chef gets off at 11:30. I’m just the wait staff.”

“So you’re not serving food right now?” The guy looks skeptical and honestly a little bemused, if Brendon has any say in it.

“Um. No?” Brendon tries, and he gives a sheepish sort of smile and hopes the guy doesn’t take off. He never gets anyone to talk to this late.

“So then what do you serve?”

“Coffee,” Brendon answers promptly, then adds “and hot chocolate. And soft drinks. And—that’s about it.” He gets a blank stare for his trouble.

“Why are you even open?”

Brendon shrugs. He doesn’t decide the hours, he just works them. “I don’t know. No one ever comes in here past eleven. You’re the first one we’ve had in—well, since I’ve worked here.”

The guy cocks a curious eyebrow. “Right.”

There’s a pause, and it feels a little weird, so Brendon just goes back to the ketchup bottles for a moment, expecting the guy to get up and leave, but he never does. He just sits there with the menu open in his hands, watching Brendon to the point that he starts getting worried about stalkers and crazy serial killers.

“Um… I guess I’ll have a coffee? Decaf, if you have it.”

Brendon looks up through his eyelashes and down the counter to meet an expectant stare. “Okay,” he says as he walks over to the coffee thermos at the end of the counter and fills a mug with decaf. He brings over the little basket filled with cream and sugar just in case, even though Brendon’s pretty sure this guy is the type to take his coffee black.

Just as Brendon’s starting to get used to the rhythmic sipping of coffee and the dull clink as the guy puts his mug down between each sip, he finds himself startled with speech he wasn’t expecting.

“So, did you pull the short straw?”

“What?” Brendon asks, a little breathlessly, because he nearly dropped the glass he was holding right off the edge of the counter, and only just barely caught it before he’d have to take another pay reduction. Then again, maybe if he cleaned everything up real well and didn’t tell anyone…

“Working this shift, in the middle of the night. Why are you here?”

Brendon doesn’t know what it is, because this guy doesn’t seem as condescending as he sounded right there, but Brendon suddenly realizes that he doesn’t have to explain himself to this stranger, he’s just some guy and Brendon doesn’t have to deal with strangers coming in to judge him in the middle of the night.

“Why are you?” Brendon says sharply, but not too sharply, because he’d probably be fired if this guy heard him get snappy enough to care to call in. If they even have a phone here. Brendon’s not sure.

The guy looks a little stunned for a moment, like he didn’t expect Brendon to notice that he was trying to start something or…whatever he was doing, and then suddenly he sticks out his hand and says “Spencer.”

Brendon pauses a moment, because he was pretty sure he was the only one that still did the whole handshake thing, but then again, this is DC. He steps forward and takes Spencer’s hand, says “Brendon.”

Then—and it’s the strangest thing—the guy just stares at him, open and blue, like he expects something from Brendon. It’s making him reconsider the whole crazy-serial-killer thing.

“Do you—” Spencer starts, and then stops and goes back to the staring thing.

“What?”

“Never mind,” he waves a hand, then promptly stands up like he’s going to leave, but instead, he rounds the counter and heads straight for the kitchen, and Brendon gapes and seriously considers calling the cops, because the kitchen is where they keep the knives, and—

And okay, this guy really doesn’t look like he’s a serial killer. Or crazy, really, except for how he just up and walked into the kitchen where he was now…digging around through a bunch of pots and pans until he found one of the frying ones that their chef liked to use a lot and plopped it down on the stove top.

Spencer seems to realize that Brendon is standing in the doorway staring, and he turns and pins Brendon with a look that—well, it could mean anything, Brendon’s a bit too distracted by the blue to do anything. “I’m making an omelet. You want one?”

Brendon’s pretty sure his brain short-circuits. Maybe he’s still sleeping and just having a really weird dream about a really hot guy, and maybe this whole thing is going to turn into a porno really soon, and—okay, apparently not. Spencer’s turning back to the cooler and pulling it open, disappearing in a swirl of cold, misty air and only appearing after he’s filled his arms with what looks to be ingredients. He’s carrying a bag of spinach. Brendon didn’t even know they _had_ spinach.

Spencer’s chopping up some peppers with a really big knife when Brendon finally finds his voice. If Brendon had been thinking, he probably would’ve chosen a different time to say “I’m pretty sure I could sue you for this.”

Spencer blinks up at him and then smiles, and yeah, okay, he’s still got a knife and he seems to pretty skilled with it and—suddenly he looks contemplative, looking back at the cutting board. “No, I don’t think so. Unless I’ve personally injured you, which I’m pretty sure hasn’t happened, I can only be sued by the owner of this place for trespassing. Though, if I ended up getting you fired, you could probably sue me. So if you want to call up your boss and explain that you fell asleep at the counter and I walked in and started making omelets, feel free.” Spencer gives him a pointy grin and pointedly concentrates on the mushrooms.

Brendon sighs and leans against the wall to watch, because it’s not like there’s much point in stopping him now. “I’m not going to sue you.”

“Why not?”

Brendon wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t want to say _because I think you’re hot_ because things would get really awkward, really fast. So instead he goes for the next closest thing to the truth. “I don’t know how to sue someone.” It’s true. Brendon’s seen plenty of people get sued in television shows and things, but they never actually show the way someone does that.

Spencer shrugs. “It’s pretty easy. You go find yourself a lawyer and say ‘I wanna sue this person, blah blah blah’ and then they do everything for you.”

Huh. Well. It’s not like Brendon can afford a lawyer anyway. “You sure you wanna be telling me this? Considering, you know…”

Spencer smiles but doesn’t look up. “You wouldn’t sue me.” He seems pretty confident. Probably because he’s right, though Brendon’s tempted to try it just to prove him wrong.

“And why’s that?” If Brendon’s not careful, this is going to turn into flirting soon, and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to tamp himself down if that happens.

“Because I’m making you an omelet.”

Did he just say— “Seriously?” Brendon doesn’t get a response, but he’s a little too shocked—and, he’ll admit it, excited—to care. “You know I’m working, right? I can’t just—”

“You can’t just let me walk into the kitchen and start cooking, either. But look where we are.”

Brendon pauses. “You’re kind of snotty, do you know that?”

Spencer snorts. “This coming from a guy that uses the word _snotty._ Are we in kindergarten?”

Brendon huffs and crosses his arms back the other way, but he doesn’t fight the smile on his lips. Regardless of what word Brendon uses to describe it, Spencer knows it’s true. He’s got this attitude, and Brendon honestly doesn’t know what happens to a person to make them so damn confident. He’s cocky.

Brendon could never afford to be cocky, not when he was counting on his landlord not to kick him out for being underage, and counting on his teachers not to question why his parents weren’t showing up anymore, and counting on his boss not to fire him before he got his next paycheck.

But anyway, hot guy in the kitchen making him an omelet. “No mushrooms!” he blurts out quickly, right as Spencer goes to reach for them, and then he promptly snaps his teeth together and blushes.

But Spencer just looks over and there’s a lightness in his eyes, and he says “Okay” and leaves the mushrooms where they are.

That’s about the moment that Brendon decides he’s _fucked._

 

 

 

“Spencer,” Ryan whines, laying backwards on the uncomfortably hard couch with his feet thrown up over the edge. “Spencer, don’t you want to play with me?”

“Oh my god, Ryan, are you _five?_ Besides, I told you, I just have to talk to my dad about something and then I’m going to kick your ass at Halo.” Spencer says, sighing and collapsing on the couch opposite Ryan, also unreasonably umcomfortable.

Ryan clicks his tongue and says “Now don’t cuss at me, Spencer, that’s no way for an upstanding gentleman like yourself to—”

Before Ryan can finish his sarcastic little monologue, the door across from Spencer bursts open and in comes his dad, surrounded by at least four people, all talking about something-or-other that Spencer really doesn’t care about.

He waits until they all leave, one by one, after whatever issue they had was resolved, and then he says “Hi, dad,” and his father looks up from his desk, blinking like he didn’t know Spencer was there. He probably didn’t.

“Spencer,” his father says with a grin, and puts down the papers in his hand.

A moment later, Ryan chimes in from his upside-down state on the couch, still affecting a somewhat melancholy tone that Spencer can’t really explain. “Hi, Mr. Smith.”

“Ryan,” Spencer’s dad says slowly, and Spencer rolls his eyes because he knows his father still can’t get over Ryan addressing him like that. “What do you want?” He asks knowingly.

Spencer pouts and crosses his arms, asks “Can’t I just want to see you?”

“Not in this office, you don’t,” Spencer’s father replies.

And, yeah, Spencer knows when he’s beat. “Can Ryan and I go to a concert this weekend?” His father narrows his eyes, and before he asks, Spencer rattles off every bit of information he can. “It’s Pete’s band, dad, they’re playing at this local place—it’s not a bar! it’s, like, a coffee shop—and it’s only going to be a few people and we know everyone and I promise I’ll be safe.”

Spencer pointedly ignores Ryan’s soft snort next to him and keeps directing pleading eyes toward his father.

“You asked your mother?”

Spencer nods. “She said to ask you.”

“You briefed Jon?”

“Yes.”

Spencer’s father seemed to pause and consider Spencer for a moment. “You know this weekend is—”

“Yeah, dad,” Spencer answers quickly, trying to get this over with before anyone’s had much chance to think about it. “That’s why I’m asking. I’m _nineteen_ , I don’t even really need to—okay, well most kids don’t have to ask their parents about these things.”

Spencer’s father considers for a few more moments, then sighs and says “Alright,” and ignores Spencer and Ryan’s muffled cheers. “And I want to meet with Jon before then.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to Hayley about it.”

His father nodded, and Spencer all but grabbed Ryan by his collar and dragged him out of the room before anything else could be said. Despite Ryan’s sputtering, he still managed to say “See you, Mr. Smith,” before they were through the doors and rushing down the hallway.

Spencer let Ryan go and ignored Ryan punching his arm, then asked “Why do you call him that? You know it gets him all–” Spencer waves a hand around in the air, for lack of the right word.

Ryan grins sharply. “Because I know it gets him all–” Ryan repeats the motion, and Spencer rolls his eyes. “Besides,” Ryan continues, “I’ve known you guys since I was five, it’d be _weird_ to call him anything else. He’s, like, a parent.” Ryan scrunches up his nose at the thought, but smiles slightly when Spencer tugs him into a rarely-used hallway so they can take the shortcut back to the game room.

“Watch, one day you’re going switch it up just to get him all ruffled, and with my luck it’ll be right before something important happens and we’ll have you to blame for being homeless.”

Ryan snorts. “Right, because you don’t have anywhere to go if you get kicked out of this place.” Ryan darted swiftly around some tall, blonde woman that seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble with the papers in her hands. “What do you think I could say, anyway?” Ryan looks thoughtful, and that’s never a good thing, but Spencer humors him anyway. It’s the quickest way to write it off.

“I don’t know, what about pretending you’re dating one of my sisters.” Spencer makes a face right after he says it and punches Ryan when he laughs.

“Or, how about:” Ryan sounds almost gleeful, and Spencer smiles as he pulls Ryan through the thick wooden door and closes it behind them with a kick. Ryan is way more ridiculous than he thinks he is.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m fucking your son, Mr. President.”

 

 

 

Brendon tries not to moan around his fork. He really does. But, see, he’s had a lot of omelets, and they always taste like sandpaper, and he really hadn’t had very high hopes for this one but— “Oh my god, this is the best omelet I’ve ever had.”

Spencer grins unrepentantly and takes a bite of his own. Brendon knows the warning bell went off about twenty minutes ago, and now they’re just running on fumes, but Brendon’s okay with coasting so long as no one walks in. They’re sitting at the counter across from each other, Brendon having stolen a chair from the back they’d been using as a coat rack. Brendon had gotten them both fresh cups of coffee while Spencer set out the omelets. Now, Brendon’s mostly fighting the urge to do something spectacularly stupid with this random guy he’s just met, like lean over the counter and their delicious omelets and kiss him.

“See? Letting a total stranger commandeer you kitchen and make you omelets that could get you fired has its upsides.” Spencer grins into his coffee mug and watches Brendon over the rim. Brendon fights back a violent blush, but only manages a little.

“How about we _not_ talk about me getting fired?” Brendon asks. “At least until after I’ve paid off my tuition.”

Spencer looks up at that. His eyes are still so soft. “You go to school here?”

Brendon nods. “University of Maryland.”

“What’s your major?”

Brendon’s going to crack a joke about that being the single most common question ever asked by anyone ever, but he’s kind of past the point of thinking Spencer is a jerk he needs to defend himself against. Besides, he _likes_ his major. “Music,” Brendon replies, and coats his omelet in pepper, to Spencer’s slight disgust.

“Cool,” Spencer replies simply. “Do you like it?”

Brendon snorts. “What kind of a question is that?”

“What?” Spencer asks honestly, and smiles around a mouthful of omelet. It’s a little gross, but it’s also really funny.

“Of course I like it. I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t like it.” Brendon rolls his eyes playfully. He wonders when he got so comfortable with this complete stranger.

Spencer shrugs. “Some people major in things they hate.”

Brendon laughs, a little derisively. “People do that when they’re more concerned about getting a job than being happy. A music major isn’t going to have career options coming out their eyeballs.”

“True,” Spencer admits, and grins.

“So, you go to school around here?” Brendon asks, and waggles his eyebrows in a ridiculous way that definitely isn’t flirting. Well, okay, it isn’t just flirting. It’s also, like…something else. That’s not blatant flirting with this guy he doesn’t even know that might end up getting him fired, oh god, oh god.

Spencer nods, then frowns down at his plate like he’s confused and rather upset about there not being any more omelet there. Because he ate it. Brendon stifles a giggle. “At GW,” Spencer replies, putting his fork down and seeming to accept that there’s no more omelet.

Brendon puffs out his cheeks with air for absolutely no reason he can discern, and asks “What’s your major?”

Spencer smirks. “I’m A Culinary Arts major.”

Brendon cracks up into his cup of coffee and hastily puts it down before he spills all over himself. “Oh my god,” Brendon gasps, “oh my god, seriously? No, right, of course you are. So _that’s_ why— Wow. Just, wow.”

“Yeah.”

“So, you do this kind of thing often, then?” Brendon gulps in air and forces the giggles down. “Invading kitchens of late-night diners and cooking for the wait staff?”

Spencer’s grin curls at the corners. “No. It’s just you.”

And suddenly the atmosphere went from light and maybe almost charming to something heavier. Spencer’s eyes seemed to be a deeper blue, darker and wide and swallowing Brendon up. Brendon’s grin goes from amused to predatory in less than a second, and he leans forward on his arms.

This is an insanely bad idea. A horrible, horrible idea. Brendon does it anyway.

“I get off in—” Brendon looks back at the clock. “Actually, I got off half an hour ago.” He laughs, but it’s short and nothing like the giggles from moments before. “If you want to wait for me to close up.”

Spencer grins and it draws Brendon in so quickly, teeth like sharp barbs that won’t let Brendon look away. “I’ll wait,” he says, and there’s _something_ there. Brendon doesn’t know what it is, but he _really_ wants to find out. Like, now.

Brendon nods, mostly for his own benefit, and grabs their plates and cups to throw into the dishwasher. He can run it and then pretend it was someone else who forgot to unload. Brendon comes back from the kitchen and promptly trips over his own feet while he struggles to get his work shirt off, tumbling to the ground behind the counter and saying, pointedly, “Ow.”

Spencer laughs, and Brendon can see his head poking out over the counter from the floor, asking “Getting a little ahead of ourselves, are we?”

“No way,” Brendon says, and finishes tugging his work polo off to reveal his Blink-182 T-shirt from the safety of the ground. He stashes it under the counter behind the old, broken $10 toaster. He grabs his coat off the end of the counter and throws it on over his shoulders, because this is DC and it gets kind of cold in January. When he turns around, Spencer has his coat on and is smiling at him, still.

Spencer offers him his arm. “Shall we go?”

Brendon keeps on grinning like a kid in a candy store and says “We shall,” as he gingerly takes Spencer’s arm and walks out the front door. Brendon clicks off the lights as he goes, and then he has to fumble around with the keys to lock up for a bit, but finally they’re tearing down the street, breath frosting the winter air as they smile to themselves.

Brendon doesn’t really know where they’re going, so he asks, and Spencer shrugs and says “I don’t really know. Got any ideas?”

Brendon’s about to say he has no idea, considering it’s nearly two AM and he’s only awake by force of will and his libido, but then a puddle from a drainpipe catches the light, and for whatever reason, Brendon remembers. He tugs at Spencer’s hand—when did they start holding hands?—and says excitedly “Come on. There’s this really cool thing.”

“Oh, real descriptive, you are.”

“Shut up,” Brendon says playfully, and they wind their way through abandoned streets down a path that Brendon swears he can only remember when he’s tired. “I found this one night on my way home from work. I have no idea what it’s doing there, it’s just sitting in the middle of this plaza and it’s always running, but I’ve never seen it in the daylight. It’s like magical.”

“So you’re taking me to a _magical place_.” Spencer uses his free hand to wiggle his fingers and makes some weird _wooo_ sound effect. Brendon laughs helplessly and rounds the corner, halting and pulling Spencer back when he nearly trips over his own feet. “What?”

Brendon just grins in answer.

“ _What?_ How is this—What?”

“I know, right?” Brendon tugs at Spencer’s arm. “Come on.”

“But this is ridiculous. This can’t exist, they don’t— _What?”_

Brendon ignores the rest of Spencer’s rambling as they make their way across the empty plaza, glowing in orange tones from the lights, toward the tiny merry-go-round that’s spinning endlessly. It’s simple, with maybe no more than six horses, but it’s running almost by itself, spinning through the night, and Brendon lets go of Spencer’s hand and runs up to the only purple horse on the thing. It seems to slow under his weight, but keeps on pumping up and down triumphantly, and he does maybe three laps before he calls out to Spencer. He’s still standing and staring in shock and awe. It’s kind of cute.

“Come on!” Brendon says. “I’ll race you!”

“This is _ridiculous,_ ” Spencer says as he pauses and then hops on to the moving floor. He takes way too long to regain his balance, considering this thing is moving at a snail’s pace, before he gets on one of the horses right behind Brendon. “This is ridiculous,” Spencer repeats, as if saying the word with a different emphasis would somehow make it less true.

“I know,” Brendon responds, and then leans forward on his horse and starts in on a racing beat, a quick-paced _ba-da-dum ba-da-dum ba-da-dum-bum-bum._

Spencer laughs behind him, open and clear, and then starts in on the commentary, affecting a fake announcer voice and saying “Aaaaand it’s Brendon in the lead, on the powerful Purple Pansy, but wait! Spencer is close behind, it looks like Trixie the Boring-Normal-Colored-Stallion isn’t out of this race yet, folks!”

Brendon laughs so hard that he falls off his horse.

After a short line about Trixie winning only because Pansy got disqualified due to lack-of-rider, he hops down and moves over to Brendon to help him up, both of them having to watch their balance as they spin and spin.

“Your horse names are amazing,” Brendon says immediately, smiling and gripping Spencer’s upper arm more firmly, because the weight on the merry-go-round is a lot more concentrated. It doesn’t seem like it’s built all that strongly, or to support people over the age of five.

“I know. I spent hours with a thesaurus coming up with the best names just for this occasion.” Spencer’s mouth is red and his smile looks softer than Brendon remembered.

“It really shows. Though honestly, I think Pansy is a bit more of a Lavender, maybe you should consider changing her name to the lovely Lavender Lily or something, it—”

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Okay.” Brendon barely gets the word out before Spencer’s lips press soft against his, warm despite the cool winter air, and Brendon’s eyes flutter shut. He tightens his grip around Spencer’s arm and feels a hand fall gently at his hip, too high to be anything suggestive. They rock as one while they spin, and in the background Brendon can hear the faint rush of cars and the small tinkling of the merry-go-round music from a broken speaker in the middle.

Brendon breathes out a shaky breath as Spencer pulls away. Then he opens his eyes and smiles. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Spencer responds, almost shy, and blushes. It’s the most adorable thing Brendon’s ever seen.

“Hi,” Brendon says again, and scuffs the toe of his shoe up so it taps against Spencer’s.

It’s another long moment before Spencer says “This is making me dizzy,” and Brendon realizes that he may be feeling a little uneasy in his stomach. He thought it was butterflies from the kiss, but the spinning probably doesn’t help. They step off together, a little unsteady and unused to standing on solid, steady ground. Brendon doesn’t let go of Spencer’s arm, and Spencer’s hand doesn’t move from Brendon’s hip.

It’s a long moment before Brendon asks “Now what?” It’s a second before they’re both cracking up, because they’re kind of ridiculous. Like kissing is the big “it” or whatever. Brendon honestly can’t say he knows what’s going on.

“Well,” Spencer says, looking up contemplatively, “Here is where one person usually insinuates something about living close by, or something, but…I’m not really that type of guy.” Spencer scrunches up his face a little. Brendon sighs in relief and laughs because Spencer is adorable.

“I’m not, either.” Brendon darts forward to kiss Spencer again, just because he can and he’s not sure if this night is going to last beyond this night. “Walk me to my car?” He asks, tentatively.

Spencer smiles and nods. They start walking back toward the diner, footsteps echoing in the empty streets and breath misting the quiet air. It’s unusually warm for the middle of January, and Brendon misses all the snow. The last bit they got melted as soon as it touched the ground. Spencer reaches for Brendon’s hand, and Brendon pulls himself a little closer so he can feel Spencer’s warmth on the left side of his body.

They don’t speak at all until they reach the side of the beaten-up Ford sitting in the cramped employee parking behind the diner. Brendon blushes a little, hoping this doesn’t get awkward, but then Spencer kisses him and smiles warmly. It doesn’t feel like a goodbye, so Brendon grins in return.

“See you around?” Spencer asks, still holding Brendon’s hand but backing up tiny steps. Brendon’s assuming he’s got a car somewhere around here, or something. Brendon would offer to walk him back to it, but they’re already at his car, and also, Brendon’s just a little bit smaller than Spencer. He has more of a reason to be scared of the dark, empty streets with long, deep shadows.

Brendon nods. “See you around.”

Spencer hovers a moment and then turns, their hands coming free, and starts walking back toward the main street. Brendon is about to turn toward his car and try to beat the heater into submission, but a vague worry from earlier in the night comes back to him, and he blurts out “Wait!”

Spencer turns and looks at him with a cocked eyebrow. Brendon bites his lip.

“You’re not, like, jailbait, right?”

There’s a beat, and then Spencer’s cracking up and looking right at him, eyes open and still blue, even in the dim lighting. Brendon furrows his brow and glares a little because, hey, it’s a valid question! Spencer looks kind of young, anyway, and Brendon’s young and all, but like, he’s old enough to be arrested for kissing a seventeen-year-old.

“Don’t worry, I’m nineteen,” Spencer responds. Brendon breathes out the air he’d been holding in and smiles again.

“Awesome.”

Spencer snorts. “I bet.” Then, without a warning, he turns around again and starts walking. Brendon just catches the shy smile and the slight shake of his head, then he’s disappearing around the generator in the back of the diner, and Brendon grins to himself for a few moments before getting into his car.

He only has to whack at the dashboard twice before his heater kicks on. It’s a good night.

 

 

 

“You _kissed_ him?”

Ryan is staring at Spencer with expectant eyes. They’re hiding from Spencer’s sisters in some abandoned office room, hanging out underneath the table with the chairs walling them in.

Spencer’s got his best bitch face on, but Ryan doesn’t seem to be affected at all.

“No, wait,” Ryan says quickly, holding up a hand “You _announced it_ first, and then you kissed him?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says bitterly, and narrows his eyes another notch.

“You don’t have any idea who he is and you went on a date.”

“It wasn’t a date, we just—”

“Can you even remember his last name?” Wow, Ryan’s really not going to let this one go, is he.

“No,” Spencer mutters darkly, and crosses his arms.

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Honestly, I can’t believe you sometimes.”

“What!” Spencer retorts, “You screw people in bathroom stalls and you don’t even remember their _first name_ , afterward. And you’re telling me off?”

Ryan spreads out a little more, pushing the boundaries of their makeshift hiding place with his knees and his arms. “No,” he says pointedly. “I’m saying you go through all that trouble of ditching me at the concert—”

“You were getting all cosy with that Kelsie chick!”

“—and shaking off the secret service when you _know_ your mom would kill you if I ever told her…”

“Which you won’t.”

“And then, after all that, all you do is kiss some random guy on a kid’s ride? You didn’t even, like, cop a feel!”

“We just met!” Spencer argues, though he feels like this is kind of futile. “We can’t all pretend to be sex gods like you.”

“Pfft, whatever, I like my lifestyle just fine.”

“Besides,” Spencer continues, leaning back gently against a chair. “It was romantic.”

Ryan snickers. Spencer kicks him in the shin.

“I would’ve at least gotten his number,” Ryan says, sounding all philosophical and contemplative again. He probably does it just to annoy Spencer.

“I know where he works on Saturdays.”

Ryan smirks up at him from the floor. “Oh, good. Now you can hone your stalking skills.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and shoves at Ryan, halfheartedly. Before he can manufacture some sort of further argument, the chair Spencer’s leaning against suddenly up and _disappears,_ and he winds up flat on his back, blinking up at blinding lights and what seems to be Jon Walker.

Jon Walker, looking somewhere between amused and pissed off.

“Uhg, what?” Spencer asks.

“You’re hiding.”

“Yes.”

“From me.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Jon says simply. “No, I don’t think so. After that stunt you pulled at the concert—”

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Spencer asks with an impatient sigh. He crosses his arms again and tries to put his bitchface back on. He tones it down a bit for Jon, because he’s not quite sure Jon’s comfortable enough with him to take the full force one.

“Not if you expect me to keep quiet about it to your parents. Seriously, Spencer, there’s a reason your father pays me tons of money to hang around all the time.”

“I thought the government paid you,” Spencer says, just to be difficult. He feels like he’s entitled every so often, with the amount of time Ryan spends playing devil’s advocate for the sake of whatever philosophy he believed in that week. “And aren’t you not allowed to address me as Spencer?”

Jon cocks an eyebrow at him. His face looks kind of hilarious from this angle, all upside-down and with his hair falling forward. There’s no way that’s a regulation hair cut. Or does the secret service even have a dress code? “I can address you however the hell I want, moron, now get up.” He sticks his hand out.

Spencer ignores it and shuffles out from under the table himself, standing to face Jon. “I could fire you.” It’s an empty threat, but it’s the principle of the matter.

Jon grins sharply and pats a hand down on Spencer’s shoulder. “That, my friend, is the best part: you can’t.”

“But you work for me!”

“I work for the President of the United States, so unless you’re him, you’re shit outta luck.” Jon narrows his eyes happily. Spencer glares.

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to swear, either.”

Jon almost—almost! Spencer can tell—rolls his eyes. Apparently, that supposed training he went through it good for something. “I can do whatever I want, so long as I jump in front a bullet for you. So you might want to be a little nicer to me and not sneak off at concerts and go wandering around the city unprotected.” At that, Jon turns his attention from Spencer and frowns down at the table in confusion.

Spencer fights the heat rising to his cheeks. He always feels awkward when Jon reminds him of stuff like that. It’s a lot easier to Spencer to just imagine him as some pesky friend that always follows him around everywhere. And he doesn’t like to think about Jon getting shot because of him.

Jon crouches down at that moment and stares under the table. “Are you gonna come out from under there any time soon?”

Ryan’s still flat on his back, hands folded over his stomach, looking contemplative. Spencer doesn’t have to be able to see him to know that.

“The pattern on the bottom of this table is inspiring. I think I’m going to write a haiku about it.” Bona-fide, completely serious monotone right there, because this is Ryan and Ryan does shit like that. Spencer rolls his eyes affectionately and wonders if he can get some sort of meeting rescheduled to be in this room in the next fifteen minutes. He’d pay to see the look on the suits’ faces when Ryan finally decided he wanted to move on and crawled out from under the table.

Jon just blinks, unaffected, and stands up, but he’s got a small smile on his face. “Whatever you want, you’re not my charge.” Jon herds Spencer out of the room, but past that Spencer’s free to go wherever he wants, so long as Jon can follow him there. It’s getting a little annoying, having Jon follow him around inside the White House, but he supposes he deserves it.

Still, if he wants to see Brendon again, he’s probably going to have to figure out a way to get Jon to stop watching him like a hawk. He really hopes he doesn’t get Jon fired in the process, but Brendon was seriously adorable, and maybe Ryan wasn’t _entirely_ right. He did have a pretty hot ass.

Spencer smiles to himself and goes to find one of his sisters so he can try to persuade one of them to walk into that meeting room and pretend to be White House officials. They’re all pretty good at imitating the politicians by now.

 

 

 

Brendon is late for work. He’s _never_ late for work. Well, okay, not often, but this time he’s really late, and it’s totally not his fault. It’s not.

See, there was this dance recital for the kids at the center he worked at. They’d been working on it for months, through all the problems that came up, and literally two hours before the show, their pianist called in from the hospital and couldn’t make it. So Brendon agreed to fill in, even though it was really late and he was opening at the diner the morning after. Then his alarm had gone off half an hour late, which would’ve been fine if his piece-of-shit car had started.

Now, he’s a whole fucking _hour_ late for work, hopping off the bus, and running across the street when there’s suddenly a car horn blaring at him. Brendon stops, startled from the side by a car with an angry man in it that had stopped only a few feet from hitting him. He lets out a breath, knows he doesn’t have time for this, and yells “Sorry!” before jogging through the doors, not stopping to catch his breath until he was behind the counter, trying to pin his name tag on with shaky fingers.

“You’re late,” a voice behind him says silkily, and Brendon would jump except for how he knows it’s William. “In fact, almost a whole hour. Darling, you can’t keep this up—”

“Can it, Will,” Brendon barks out, and turns to face the counter. William is leaning forward, long hair cradling his face, sharp eyes scanning down Brendon. William is one of their regulars, and he’s kind of sleazy except it’s in a way that makes it nearly impossible not to think he’s funny. He comes in so often, honestly, that he knows everyone’s work schedules by heart. It would be kind of creepy, except it’s also adorable, because Brendon knows he only comes in here to watch Gabe.

Gabe is their cook. Or, well, he likes to be called a “chef” even though half the things they serve are frozen. He’s also got something going on with Vicky, one of their other waitresses, who—Brendon is fairly certain—has a two-year-old kid at home. And William wants to start something with Gabe, even though Gabe has something with Vicky, though it seems like Vicky has something with pretty much everyone.

Except Brendon. That should be abundantly made clear. Brendon, for one, doesn’t like women that way, and two, is kind of a one-man deal. In fact, Vicky teases him about it constantly, keeps telling him he should take William up on his constant offers to “Pop your cherry like a supernova, honey.” To which Brendon usually responds “That sounds mind-blowing, and I’m sure it’s awesome, but I just don’t think I can handle that kind of epic-ness.”

Besides, Brendon’s not interested, _at all_ , in having sex with William Beckett. He’s too tall, and he kind of looks like a girl with all that hair, and he’s also probably had sex with so many people that Brendon would wind up with some super-STD that can like…penetrate three layers of steel, and, okay, ‘penetrate’ was not the best word for his brain to use right there.

William, of course, doesn’t believe this because Brendon’s just too innocent and naive to realize he’s got the raging hots for William. Because in The World According To William Beckett, every hot piece of ass on the planet loses it to him. He’s got some sort of complex from, like, some traumatic childhood experience. Or, it was traumatic for the other guy, not so much for William.

Brendon doesn’t want to know. He’s already certain he’s going to either lose his mind or wind up charged as an accomplice to some massive conspiracy to, like, make prostitution the highest art form by teaching…something. He knows too much about the spider-web of social life surrounding this diner.

Honestly, Brendon just wants to pay his rent.

“Shut it, Billiam,” Gabe says. He drapes himself over Brendon’s back before Brendon shudders and slips out from him, going to serve the people over at table twelve. They look nice. Besides, Gabe says maybe two words to William and then all is forgotten.

Brendon’s just glad his boss isn’t in today, or he’d be worried about being fired. Luckily, despite all the shit they give him, he knows the people here would never rat him out. Now, if they had electronic time cards, they’d be screwed, but it’s mostly just a “show up and get paid or don’t and get fired” kind of deal. Brendon’s lucky like that.

Though, maybe not so lucky with the snotty kid at table ten that’s throwing his pancakes all over the place, and the snotty parents that pretend they can’t see it. That’s going to be a joy to clean up.

He busies himself pointedly with the rest of the morning rush, and then things calm down in that weird hour between late breakfast and early lunch that Vicky’s taken to calling Brunch and William keeps referring to as The Witching Hour…Of My Dick. Something about Gabe and William’s sexual prowess, no doubt.

But there’s only a couple of disgruntled teenagers in black in the corner booth, and they glare whenever anyone tries to approach. Somehow, they all have pancakes. Brendon doesn’t remember taking their order. Huh.

So he’s got no choice but to busy himself behind the counter again, where Gabe is cleaning up the kitchen and preparing for lunch, and Vicky’s taken off to be replaced by some new guy insisting everyone call him _Siska,_ rather than his actual first name, which remains to be discovered.

Which, of course, because he’s only got an hour left, means he gets to spend that hour in the hot seat with William— _who is still here—_ answering increasingly embarrassing questions about his life. Mostly his sex life, or the lack thereof, which ends up being translated to his dating life, or the startling lack of one since he got here a year ago.

“Brendon, my lovely, fluffy, little puppy.” William is draped over at least three of the seats, watching Brendon upside-down. Brendon shifts uncomfortably and tries to ignore him. “You, my pet, need a real man to come into your life and show you the wonders of love.”

Brendon’s long since gotten past blushing around William. Now he just keeps his mouth shut, and occasionally responds with some sort of vague retort that’s mildly insulting. He doesn’t actually hate William, he just… Well, he sort of hates him. He wants him to go away, and stop pestering him about his love life, because honestly, it’s none of his damn business. It’s nice, and all, that he’s trying to be so…helpful? Whatever. But Brendon’s not that kind of guy.

Right now, William is trying to make the argument (yet again) that Brendon should let William deflower him. It really never gets old for him, does it? And of course Gabe and Siska are no help…

“Unless, of course, you have another striking, upstanding young gentleman in mind, you should—” William cuts himself off, still looking at Brendon, and—oh, shit. Shit shit shit.

Brendon accidentally just remembered last week. And the guy. The guy in the middle of the night with the merry-go-round and the hips and…shit, what was his name? He should remember his name, he couldn’t possibly have forgotten the name of—Spencer! Right. Stupid William had been talking about stupid pretty boys and stupid, stupid things, and Brendon’s brain had drifted over to that thing he’d been trying to forget about. It’s not like he’s going to see Spencer ever again, so there’s no use getting hung up on it. It was just some stupid…whatever.

But, okay, so… Maybe— _maybe,_ mind you!—he blushed. Just a bit. A titch. Hardly at all. But William has eyes like a hawk, the jerk, and…

“Ooooh, Brendon! You dog, you! Finally found yourself a little something, huh?” William waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Brendon fights down a blush. This is _ridiculous._ He doesn’t even know what William’s talking about half the time, now is no time to—but oh, here come Siska and Gabe, to make matters worse. Gabe drapes an arm around his shoulder, leans in and whispers “Tell us,” directly into Brendon’s ear. It’s gross and it tickles, and honestly, Brendon would sue them all for sexual harassment. He should, really. (He should, but he won’t.)

Siska is new, and doesn’t have any right, _any at all_ , but it seems William’s taken to calling him “Sisky baby” which means he’s been inducted into the Diner of Delusions and Dilettantes. Brendon’s thinking about patenting the name.

And so now he’s got three crazies, hanging all over him, milking him for details, and Brendon is one step away from getting restraining orders and another step away from making up a completely bullshit story about some French guy named Jean Paul and just running with it.

Instead, he blushes and stutters a lot and manages to mumble out something about a guy in the middle of the night that made him an omelet (“In _my_ kitchen?!” was Gabe’s undignified response) and maybe sort of kissed him on a merry-go-round with all the glowy lights.

At least there’s an appropriate amount of ooh-ing and aah-ing before William moves on to asking what happened after. He doesn’t seem to believe Brendon when he says the mystery guy (Brendon is _so_ not telling them his name, no way) just walked him to his car and left.

William can paint elaborate stories all he wants, but he’s still not going to convince Brendon to let anyone in his pants before he damn well wants to, nor is William going to get anywhere with Gabe if he doesn’t back off a bit. (Brendon knows these things.)

Brendon lets the two of them get back to their shameless, one-sided flirting and starts spilling salt shakers on every table and barking at the new guy that he did it, and he needs to clean it up, and don’t forget to throw some over his shoulder, and it’s gotta be his left. Brendon smiles, because a little hazing goes a long way to getting someone to be your united front against the terrifying force that is William Beckett.

He tries not to let his thoughts drift to Spencer too often, mostly because it’s a memory better off lost in the wind, but he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips sometimes, or the blush that finds its way to his cheeks.

If his mother were around to see him like this…well, that’s another matter entirely.

 

 

 

Spencer really shouldn’t. He really, _really_ shouldn’t. Jon’s already pissed at him, a combination of some residual anger from ditching his security detail at the concert and the most recent stunt he pulled, switching places with Ryan—accidentally!—and forgetting to tell Jon that Ryan sometimes sleeps in his bed, and sometimes Spencer gets up in the middle of the night to go explore the White House, and this time he might’ve…maybe…fallen asleep on a couch in the Xerox room all the assistants use. The smell of ink is relaxing, okay?

But anyway, Jon is already pissed, and has gone from following him around just to bother him while he’s in the White House, to avoiding him at all costs unless he goes out, which he’s not allowed to do, under Jon’s orders.

So Spencer really shouldn’t sneak out of the White House to go wander the streets of DC by himself in broad daylight just so he can try to find a diner that Brendon may or may not be working at right now. And to top it all off, it’s entirely possible never wants to see him again. Or, well, doesn’t expect to, and has, like, a boyfriend or something…

But he does. Because—and let’s be honest, because Spencer’s a pretty honest guy—he’s kind of stupid for the guy. The guy he doesn’t even know. That he kissed. Twice.

It’s not really hard to sneak away from his security detail when he’s had years of practice. Granted, only one year sneaking out of the White House while he has his own security team and everything. But eight years before that as the Vice President’s son, which entails quite a bit less security and quite a bit less time in the White House. And a few years before that as the son of a Senator, which entitled no security whatsoever but a couple of worried parents that didn’t quite understand, at that time, that sometimes, Ryan needed Spencer there and he needed him there _now._

He takes a couple indiscriminate hallways, passes harried assistants that would probably recognize him if they weren’t freaking out over whatever it is they always seemed to freak out about. He grabs his sunglasses out of his coat pocket before he’s outside and puts them on, exchanges his usual winter coat for one on the rack in some guy’s office who’s literally never there. He quit or something, and left his coat there, and they’re using his office as storage, and so Spencer switches out coats before he leaves and switches them back on his way in.

It’s kind of weird that people recognize his clothes.

His last step is to grab a hat from somewhere—usually he brings one along, but sometimes he just finds one lying around. He always puts it back where it was, and he likes to think he’s the reason there are ghost rumors about this part of the White House. It’s really funny. He’s a hat-stealing ghost or something.

A few more tricky turns and he’s out the main entrance, bypassing security because people going out don’t really need that much, and when he’s got a stranger’s coat on, a hat, and ridiculously huge sunglasses, people tend not to notice he’s actually the President’s son.

Which is the whole point.

Sometimes, Spencer pretends he’s James Bond. Yeah, it’s a little lame. But it’s also partly true. Honestly. He even did a spy-roll once. (Just once. Ryan had laughed at him for days afterward.)

He navigates the streets mostly by memory, and occasionally he’ll remember that Jon is going to kill him if he ever finds out. Ryan’s supposed to be covering for him, saying they’re doing suspicious things in Spencer’s bedroom, though Spencer knows he’s just playing video games and stealing his private stash of Coke.

Still. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for Spencer to be doing potentially questionable things. Not when Ryan Ross was involved. Though in this case, “potentially questionable things” was more likely to be some weird, East Asian bonding ritual and meditation than anything sexual. Ryan is like his brother. Also, Spencer’s not a whore. (He can’t speak for Ryan.)

He’s at the diner before he even remembers his feet taking him there, and then he really doesn’t know what to do. At all. It’s a Saturday, so it’s in the realm of possibilities that Brendon is working, even though Spencer’s pretty sure it was a Sunday when they met. But it’s also—well, it’s kind of crazy. He goes in anyway.

He’s kind of going crazy because of this guy. Great.

 

 

 

Brendon is exhausted. Between work and classes and the children’s center being in the middle of a really important fundraiser, he’s been burning the candle at both ends. He’s happy to, really, but right now, he’s got an entire day off (thanks to Greta needing to make up for a sick day, or something, and they were over scheduled) and he’s going to spend it sleeping. Possibly doing some homework about the Baroque period and the differences and advancements made in melody and music during that time. It’s not really the most interesting thing to be studying, but it’s a requirement and he figures he should know something about the history of music. He just likes the Romantic era so much more. Plus, Bach was always a little too dramatic for him.

But work on that isn’t due for at least a week, and he doesn’t have work today, and he doesn’t have anyone from the children’s center in dire need of his help, and he doesn’t have class…just his quiet apartment, Shane spending the night with his girlfriend, and a bed.

Of course, that all goes straight down the drain when his buzzer rings. Brendon groans, already cataloguing the list of people that could possibly want him at this moment, and exactly how important whatever it is they need from him is. Unfortunately, the list mostly consists of Shane, having some sort of crisis with Reagan, or Pete, having some sort of ridiculous crisis with…something. Whatever Pete’s crises always tend to be about.

He whacks his hand around until he finds his glasses, disentangles himself from the blankets that are trying to strangle him, and then stumbles to the front door to press that darned button and let whoever it is up. He hopes it’s not some serial killer or something, because the intercom’s broken so he can only say “Come on up” to whoever it is and then he can’t get a reply. But he figures most crazy people don’t ring doorbells.

He scrambles to find some pajama pants to pull on over his boxers, only finding one of Shane’s oversized pairs that always fall right off his hips. He pulls on a too-tight pink shirt right before he hears the knock on the door.

Next second, he’s blinking wearily at the figure in his doorway, and then his vision clears enough to tell him that the guy standing in his door is…

“Um… Sorry, do I know you?” Brendon blinks like he’s not seeing things right. At the moment, it kind of feels like there’s a celebrity standing at his door, what with the huge sunglasses and the hat and the oversized trench coat and…

“Oh! Right!” And then suddenly the glasses and hat are gone, and Brendon still can’t really believe his eyes.

“Spencer?” He asks, unsure, and then Spencer blushes and stutters over an “Um” and rubs the back of his neck until Brendon grins like the fucking sun. “Um, hi.”

“Hi,” Spencer says tentatively, looking up at Brendon through his eyelashes, like he’s not quite sure if he should be here, or what they’re doing, and—

“Right!” Brendon says quickly, and jumps out of the doorway. “Come in! I just, um, it’s messy, but like…yeah.” Brendon’s never had a problem with the mess and guests before. He figures the fact that he says anything is a tell to how nervous he is. Besides, it’s not like he was expecting anyone. To be honest, he was expecting to sleep for twelve hours, but, well…Spencer kind of trumps that. Just a little. Maybe.

Also, Spencer is here. Somehow. He actually remembered Brendon, which is a feat in and of itself, but then he also managed to find out where Brendon lives, which Brendon doesn’t think he told anyone, and yet Spencer is here, and that’s maybe a little worrying and— “You’re not a stalker, are you?”

Spencer trips over his own feet and turns wide eyes on Brendon. Brendon grins sheepishly, but hey, it’s a valid question. Your dream guy just shows up on your doorstep and wow, okay, when did Brendon start thinking of Spencer as his dream guy? They met, like, once. Once, and they were both punch drunk and kind of ridiculous because it was two in the morning, but… Whatever. Brendon’s a hopeless romantic. He’s accepted his fate.

“Oh,” Spencer seems to clue in just as Brendon’s worried he just scared off his soulmate. (Soulmate? _Really,_ Brendon? Really?) “I, um, found the diner and some guy—” Spencer makes a face, and Brendon laughs because he knows that face. It’s the I-just-met-William-Beckett face.

“William,” Brendon interrupts with a nod, and Spencer grins knowingly in response and says

“Yeah. He’s kind of…eccentric.”

“That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say about him,” Brendon admits honestly, then says “Hey, you want coffee? It’s like…I don’t even know. It’s early.” Brendon walks toward the kitchen anyway, because whether or not Spencer wants coffee, he’s not going to be able to keep standing without it.

“Actually, it’s like–” Spencer looks at his wristwatch “Twelve thirty.”

Brendon sort of makes a pained whimper at that, because it’s later than he thought and it means there are definitely not enough hours left in the day for him to get a decent’s night sleep, now. But that was sort of inevitable now, wasn’t it?

Spencer must misinterpret his _Oh my god, I’m going to die of exhaustion one day_ whine with something else, so he hurriedly says “I’ll have coffee.”

Brendon grins, feeling catlike, and pulls out two mugs. Spencer hovers in the doorway for a little bit, awkward and unsure of himself, and if Brendon weren’t sleep-deprived, he’d probably be talking to fill in the gaps because he hates it when his guests feel weird about being there, like he wouldn’t offer up his home as their own if they asked. (Even though he’s only known Spencer for a total of a few hours now and it’s entirely possible he’sapsychoticserialkiller, ohmygod.)

Brendon starts humming under his breath to cover up how inadvertently nervous he is, and when he starts humming he sort of does a little shimmy, because he just _does,_ it’s what happens, and then Shane’s stupid pants slip a little lower on his hips and he goes to pull them back up without showing it, because Spencer is, like, new and awesome and skittish right now, but—

“Oh my god, have you always been this hot?” Spencer blurts, and then immediately snaps his mouth shut and blushes. It’s adorable, and Brendon decides he’s not a serial killer, after all. (If he is, Brendon’s still not going to kick him out. He’s fucking cute, even if he’s killed people.)

Brendon kind of starts giggling uncontrollably, and Spencer just looks more embarrassed and kind of unsure about it, and he leaves the mugs on the counter so he can turn to face Spencer properly and make some sort of face. They seem to be making a lot of faces at each other.

“I guess? I mean, I don’t—I literally just woke up, I’m–” and suddenly Brendon feels rather awkward about the whole thing “I’m wearing pajamas and I haven’t brushed my hair and I don’t really… I’m not– What?” Yeah, this whole thing just got confusing for him. At least no one’s running away right now. Brendon counts that as a plus.

“It’s the—the—” Spencer waves his arm around dramatically and nearly whacks himself in the face, blushing even more. “You!” he says emphatically, like that explains anything. “The hair! It’s spiky and it goes everywhere, and it’s the—the pants and your hips and–” Spencer sputters a bit and covers his face for a moment with his hand “and the humming and the shirt and the glasses and—”

Brendon starts laughing again, and for a moment it looks like Spencer is going to actually leave, like Brendon isn’t just as much of an idiot right now, but instead he brings the coffee mugs over and stands as close to Spencer as he can manage. Spencer uncovers his face and startles a little at how close Brendon is, smiling warmly up at him, and then he hands Spencer the mug and says “See, I was going to kiss you, but I’ve been sleeping a while so I figure it’s probably best we both taste like coffee firshmmph—”

Yeah, okay, strike that last part. Spencer’s mouth is hot against his, and he tastes sort of like fruit, or maybe Propel, that gross flavored water stuff, but it’s Spencer so it’s _fucking awesome_ , and Brendon tries not to ruin it by laughing, which is surprisingly easy when Spencer pushes his hips back against the counter. Brendon only just got their coffee down in time, by now he probably would’ve dropped both the mugs and threaded his hands into Spencer’s hair while they stepped all over shattered glass.

Brendon can’t really tell the moment that this became what it was and exactly what Brendon wanted in the world, ever, but it did. Spencer walked into his life with his cocky smile and his omelets and his freaking hips, and Brendon is perfectly okay with admitting he’s kind of fucked. It’s possible he accidentally slipped and fell into, like, a fairy tale or something, and Spencer is his Prince Charming and there’s never going to be an evil witch or queen or anything, and just the happily ever afters.

Brendon swears up and down he wasn’t this sappy a few weeks ago. Definitely not.

They kiss for a hundred million years, first fast and frantic and then slow and sweet like honey, Spencer’s hands never moving from Brendon’s hips, Brendon’s hands still worked into Spencer’s hair. If he remembers correctly, his hair looked pretty nice when he walked in. It’s probably not going to anymore. Brendon thinks that’s just fine with him.

It never moves beyond kissing—they don’t even press their hips against each other too firmly—which Brendon is kind of torn about, because on the one hand, he’s in college and he kind of wants to lose it already, but on the other hand, he’s glad Spencer isn’t that kind of guy. They both aren’t. So maybe that’s better, then.

Eventually, they pull back to breathe by mutual agreement, foreheads still touching and eyes still closed, and then Spencer backs off a bit and they both open their eyes. Brendon smiles, and Spencer returns it full-force, and it’s fucking adorable.

“Hi,” Brendon says in lieu of anything else to say.

Spencer lights up a little. “Hi.”

“So this is awesome and all,” Brendon starts, rushing over his next words when Spencer’s smile almost falters, “but I think if we’re gonna keep meeting like this, I should probably get to know, like, your last name, before more of the kissing stuff. I mean, the kissing is great, don’t get me wrong. And actually, I’m totally okay with turning into that guy in a country song who meets someone and there’s lots of kissing and, um, other stuff, and then he wakes up alone and doesn’t even know the person’s last name, but—”

“It’s Smith,” Spencer says, then “Wanna get a muffin?”

Brendon blinks. “What?” Spencer kind of shuffles and raises an eyebrow, and that cockiness is back. Brendon doesn’t know whether he missed it or not, but it’s most likely he did. “Is that a code for something, because I gotta say—”

“No,” Spencer laughs and bites his lip before continuing. “I know this really cool bakery not too far from here, if you wanted to—”

“Yes!” Brendon says, a little too enthusiastically, and then covers it up. “Um, just give me a moment go get dressed and, like, run a comb through my hair so I can pretend I didn’t just wake up fifteen minutes ago.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Some things are better than sleep, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says over his shoulder, and he won’t be able to stop grinning and brush his teeth properly, but he figures it’s worth it for the color he brings to Spencer’s cheeks with that.

His life is fucking _awesome._

 

 

 

Spencer’s pretty much convinced he’s going crazy. That’s the only explanation. It’s the only possible reason he went to a strangers apartment _alone,_ without anyone knowing where he is, drank the stranger’s _coffee_ (or some of it, anyway), kissed the stranger, and then promptly volunteered to go out on what is essentially a date to a bakery. In public.

Jon would shoot him if he found out. (He better not, damn it, or Spencer is going to have Jon shoot Ryan, as well.)

But Brendon’s hand is warm in his, and that is literally the _only_ thing Spencer can concentrate on right now. That, and Brendon asking “wait, are you a spy or something? What’s with the glasses? It’s like you’re wearing a disguise or something, and if there are like, spy gadgets in your belt or something I should probably know not to touch anything that might explode in five seconds.”

Spencer panics for about a second, then shrugs and says “I have sensitive eyes.”

Brendon snorts, but lets it go, and Spencer’s grateful. He’s never really known how to do the whole “I’m actually the son of the President of the United States” thing, and he doesn’t think now is the time. No. Definitely not. Not when Brendon keeps looking at him like _that,_ with those freaking pools of warm, soulful chocolate.

Jon is going to kill Spencer and bury him where they’ll never find the body. (Then he’ll likely have to kill himself to get out of the guilt of shooting his protectee.)

They get to the bakery, and inside it’s warm and smells like fresh bread, and Brendon smiles and rubs his hands together. The tip of his nose is pink. Spencer blushes without any conceivable reason to be doing so, and directs them to a shielded, corner table. They’re far enough from the White House to avoid any sort of people who might recognize Spencer, but he tries to be careful, anyway. Mostly because he’s overly aware that he is out in public without any protection, and his father would probably shoot him long before Jon got the chance. He avoids thinking about what his mother would do. (Probably start World War III. There would be pitchforks and torches and lots of bombs. She’d lock him in a room with ten-foot-thick steel walls and get a sniper to shoot anyone that even twitched.)

They go up to order together, and Spencer keeps himself from looking nervous because it’s usually the first thing that tips anyone off, but he gets coffee (mostly because Brendon ordered some sticky-sweet thing, and he’s already hyper, so Spencer thinks he’s going to need coffee to keep up) and a scone. Brendon tells him he’s like an old man, but he’s smiling so Spencer gets sidetracked by that, once again. He’s pretty sure Brendon ordered some sort of five-frosting cake. When they hand it to him, the thing is _smothered_ in sugar. Brendon’s eyes get wide.

Spencer feels a bit less worried when he settles back into the corner table, mostly because no one’s looked twice at him. It probably has something to do with Brendon’s presence, and his ridiculous rainbow shoes.

Spencer asks about them, because it’s something to talk about, and Brendon’s face lights up so much that he has to swallow just to keep from blurting out something _else_ embarrassing today.

“The kids at the center I volunteer at made them for me,” he says, and his eyes dance. Spencer thinks, vaguely, that it’s kind of ironic that he’s sneaking off just so he can go on a date with a guy that, for all intents and purposes, is starting to seem like _the_ most perfect person for the President’s child to date. Besides the whole being-a-guy thing, anyway. It just so happens that he’s also the most perfect person for Spencer to date. At least, that’s what his heart keeps telling him while it bangs out a wicked drum beat against his ribs.

“You volunteer?” He asks, and it’s a _duh, no shit_ question but Brendon doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

“Yeah,” he grins wider. “It’s an after-school center for kids that don’t have the greatest family situations, whether it’s money problems or parent problems, and they put on plays and learn music and make art and play sports. It’s all ages but it’s the little ones that’ll surprise you. A group of six-year-olds made these shoes, though I think they had help with the tie-dying part.” He sticks his legs out straight so he can see his ridiculous shoes poking out at the other end of the table, and taps his toes together a couple times.

“Cool,” Spencer says, and he’s sort of running out of words with the way Brendon’s smiling right now. He has frosting on his nose, and he tries to lick it off with his tongue. Spencer’s pretty sure he melts into the seat. Ryan is going to make fun of him for a million years.

“So, _Spencer Smith,”_ Brendon’s grin is predatory, and he says Spencer’s name with the S’s all sharp and emphasized. It gives Spencer the chills (the good kind.) “I want to know more about the man behind the mask—er, the giant sunglasses and the hat,” Brendon corrects, and goes back to slurping at his coffee.

Spencer blushes, again, because he seems to be doing that at the drop of a hat, now. He’s accepted his fate and moved on. “I’m actually a spy after all. The name’s Bond, and you’re the incredibly sexy woman that gets to distract the people trying to kill me long enough for me to pull out my gadgets and save the world. In a few seconds, a helicopter is going to land on the roof of this place and we’re gonna have to go.” Spencer doesn’t know when he became so lame. He swears he wasn’t like this until he walked into a diner in the middle of the night.

Brendon pulls back and puts a hand over his chest, mock-affronted. “Who says _I’m_ the woman, here? Don’t I get to kick some bad-guy butt?”

Spencer scrunches up his nose and thinks. “You get to wear a little black dress?” he tries.

Brendon narrows his eyes.

“Um…” Spencer thinks, “You get to wear Hallucinogenic Lipstick?”

Brendon grins, and his teeth seem shiny in the light. “You have yourself a deal.”

Spencer bites his lip and looks down at his coffee, and Brendon slides closer to him on the seat, lacing their fingers together and leaning down to take another bite of his ridiculously sweet cake.

When Spencer kisses him again later, he tastes like birthdays and clouds.

 

 

 

Brendon doesn’t think he’s ever dated anyone this long. It’s crazy, absolutely crazy, because five months ago he was this guy that walked into the diner while Brendon was sleeping, and now he’s the guy who shows up and cooks ridiculously awesome food that they eat on the couch in Brendon’s apartment, watching every season of Doctor Who and repeating the lines to each other in bad British accents.

And they haven’t even _done anything,_ and it’s kind of awesome, because Brendon doesn’t even get worried that he’s going to get dumped because he doesn’t really know anything about sex. Though that one time, they were making out on the couch and Spencer ground his hips down _just right_ and then they were both gasping and grabbing at each other desperately, and it was over very, _very_ quickly but it happened for both of them, so that was totally awesome.

And okay, so maybe they’ve repeated the experience with a bit less clothing on more than one occasion lately. Spencer is hot, and he has these _hips,_ and he’s soft around the middle, which Brendon thinks is awesome no matter how much Spencer stutters and blushes.

But there’s no rush, and they’re not pushing each other too quickly, and no matter what completely ridiculous things William says, they’re both okay with it. It’s _awesome._ And sometimes, Brendon wakes up feeling so ridiculously happy and content that he might just burst. Usually, in these situations, he calls Spencer, spends four or five minutes blustering and stumbling over his words, and then quickly breathes out _Iloveyou_ all as one word, and he can feel Spencer’s smile no matter how far away he is. (Once, he was in France. It was crazy. Something about his dad and a business trip.)

They’re comfortable together, finally past the rush of _newnewnewohmygodsoawesome_ and settling into each other with startling certainty, and they’re quiet. Brendon gets the feeling Spencer is kind of shier than he lets on, and they keep things low-key, mostly just hanging out in Brendon’s apartment or sometimes in quiet diners late at night, whispering to each other with secret smiles that only they know the meaning of. Brendon likes it when it’s just them. Them, curled up under a blanket on the couch, Spencer’s fingers stroking through Brendon’s hair and Brendon’s arms around Spencer’s middle, watching movies late into the night.

Shane stops mocking Brendon about it after a month or so, and he’s been spending a lot more time with Regan, so he doesn’t have any right to make fun of their relationship unless Brendon gets to make fun of the fact that Shane’s started freaking out every time anyone says the word “ring”. It’s really funny.

But his point is, they’re good. They’re _awesome,_ and they’re flying when they’re together, and Brendon would be entirely okay with doing this, just this, for the rest of his life.

So of course, because Brendon’s been long, _long_ overdue for some sort of bad luck, it all comes crashing around him at once.

 

 

 

Spencer’s gotten ridiculously good at sneaking away from his security detail. _Ridiculously_ good. Ryan has been doing him way too many favors, and Jon is starting to get really freaked out and jumpy, and he has no idea, no idea _at all_ how he’s managed to pull this off for five months.

It’s starting to wear thin, though. Jon is picking up on more and more, and Spencer feels like shit because he’s basically one of Spencer’s friends, except Spencer’s been avoiding him like the plague, and he somehow thinks he fucked up. It’s really not his fault. If Jon gets fired, Spencer’s going to _have words_ with his father. Jon’s not allowed to be fired. Or leave. He’s awesome, because he’s Jon, it’s just… _Brendon._

And Spencer is so happy when they’re together, everything is amazing, he swears he’s never felt like this before. Sometime, about two weeks ago, Ryan was poking fun at him again, like he had been for months, and Spencer had snapped a little bit, and Ryan had gone all wide-eyed and said “You’re really serious about this.”

Spencer had blushed and nodded and mumbled something ridiculous and sappy that he’d said a thousand times before, but Ryan got the message, and the teasing stopped. (Mostly.)

And Ryan’s met Brendon, more than once, but swore Ryan in to secrecy, and it’s awesome because Brendon makes him _glow_ and Spencer just… He wants to stop sneaking around. It feels like he’s lying to Brendon (he is) and he hates it because it’s shitty, because Brendon is awesome and deserves to know that Spencer doesn’t mean anything by this. He’s trying to keep Brendon _safe._ And maybe, just maybe, he’s being a little selfish because he doesn’t want Brendon to leave.

Haley left, when she found out. It was a lot sooner in the relationship, granted, but somehow that doesn’t make Spencer feel better. She yelled at him, told him he’d better be gone when she got back, and stomped out of her apartment and his life.

Amy wasn’t much better. They’d only been dating for a little while when Spencer told her, and she’d screamed until her lungs gave out, and then a month later, she was off doing the media circuit and rubbing Spencer’s shortcomings in his face. And telling the entire country. That had been…that was bad. She hadn’t known much, especially when Spencer literally hadn’t done much that could paint him in a bad light, but she twisted everything so it seemed a lot worse than it was.

Brendon would never do that. Spencer _knows_ he wouldn’t. But that’s just it: Spencer knows exactly what Brendon _would_ do, at least if he found out on his own, and just thinking about it is breaking his heart. He’d get all…all sad, and puppy-eyed, and asked why Spencer didn’t trust him, and he’d be a brave little toaster about all of it and then everything will just far apart, and _fuck,_ Spencer really can’t… He can’t let that happen.

Which means he has to tell Brendon himself, and he has to do it right. And he has to have Ryan there, because Ryan will know exactly the right way to hug him when it all goes to shit. And he has to have Jon there, partly because Jon is basically proof Spencer isn’t being a dick pulling a practical joke, and also because Jon is going to _flip a shit_ if Spencer winds up on the front page of some tabloid and he wasn’t there.

But first, Spencer has to actually _tell_ Jon. So, because Spencer is kind of a dick, he gets Ryan to make up some “oh my god, come quick, it’s Spencer” story and keeps Jon confused, and then they lead him in to this really cool room Spencer found a year ago. It has keypads on the doors with codes that only Spencer and Ryan know, and he’s pretty sure they’re not allowed to be in there, but it’s always empty and no one seems to see them.

Jon is gaping at them, turning red and angry, and his hand instinctively goes to rest at his hip, on his gun, because this is suspicious and he’s worried, but Spencer puts up placating hands. Ryan falls gracefully on to one of the chairs, and Spencer shuts all the blinds so no one from the halls can see.

“What’s going on?” Jon asks, narrowing his eyes. His voice is all business, and Spencer rolls his eyes to attempt to get him to loosen up.

“Relax. I’m not in any danger, you’re not in any danger, and it’d be really nice if you got your hand away from your gun, because in a few minutes, the only person you’re going to have the urge to shoot is me, and that’s bad for all of us.” Spencer leans against the side table where the minute keeper sits and tries to stop his hands from shaking.

Ryan snorts. “I don’t know, I think I might be okay.”

Spencer shoots a glare into the back of his head. “Shut up, you’re an accomplice. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shoots you first.” He can hear Ryan rolling his eyes and mouthing “dramatic” at Jon, but he doesn’t care.

Jon, at least, seems to have let go of some of the tension in his shoulders, and taken his hand away from his gun. He knows it’s always sort of made Ryan uncomfortable, but it can’t really be helped.

He narrows his eyes and stares Spencer down. “So…” he prompts, and crosses his arms.

“So…” Spencer hedges, glancing around the room nervously. He hears an impatient little sigh from Ryan and would just love to punch him in the back of the head right now, but instead he figures he’ll just get it over with quick. “So I’ve been sneaking out of the White House for the last five months.”

“ _What?”_ Jon shouts, and Spencer winces, really hoping this room is as soundproof as it looks. “You— _Spencer._ I’m telling the President, let me out.” He marches toward the door and waits, glaring daggers at Spencer, but Spencer doesn’t move. “Let. Me. Out.” He growls, low, and Spencer swears he sees his hand twitch toward his gun. Ryan whimpers a little, wide eyes flitting between them.

Spencer bites the inside of his cheek and waits until Jon seems to let go of some of the anger. It’s not much, but it’s something. “Want to let me explain, first?”

“No,” Jon answers flatly, and before Spencer can open his mouth to try, he throws up his arms and starts yelling again. “What do you want me to do, Spence? This is my _job,_ don’t you get that? If you got hurt, or hell, even _seen_ , it’d be on my head. Do you not _get_ that?”

“I do,” Spencer answers shortly, through clenched teeth. He already feels like shit. Jon’s not making it much better.

“Then why the _fuck—”_ Jon doesn’t swear often; he’s trained not to so it kind of means _deep shit_ when he does, but Spencer isn’t going to back down.

“I’m dating someone,” Spencer says, and Jon stops. If he’s surprised at all, he’s not really letting on, but Spencer knows the kind of training he had to go through, so he knows how good Jon is at putting up a front. Especially around Ryan; Spencer’s more observant than most people give him credit for, and despite Jon’s professionalism and demeanor, Spencer hadn’t failed to realize the wistful look he gets around Ryan, sometimes. He’s saving it for later, when he can figure out what the hell to do about it.

“That’s not an excuse—” Jon starts up again, but Ryan cuts him off.

“Let him explain.”

Jon doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, just keeps his eyes trained on Spencer’s and his jaw clenched.

Spencer, upon realizing that Jon is a lot less angry now than he was moments ago, deflates. He lets out a breath, runs a hand through his hair to try to calm himself down, and has the gall to look back at Jon, who’s still glaring. But it’s softer now.

Jon’s been around for a long time, now. He was there for Haley, and for Amy. He knows how this is, for him.

“I—” Spencer starts, and his voice falters, so he clears it and starts again. “I didn’t want to trick you, Jon. I know you think I think my security detail is bullshit, but I don’t. It’s just—I started seeing someone, and it’s really important to me, and you kind of raise an alarm, what with the gun and the black…”

Spencer trails off, looks to Ryan for help (who is staring, blankly, and waiting, because he’s a horrible best friend and Spencer should replace him) then he looks to Jon. And Jon looks…a little hurt, honestly, but also sympathetic. He’s even uncrossed his arms and relaxed his posture to something almost normal.

“She doesn’t know who you are?” Jon asks, softly, and Spencer nods, and he doesn’t need Ryan’s little twitch to know he’s got to tell the rest.

“And that’s not just—” Spencer runs a hand down his face, then scruffs up his hair, even though he knows Ally—the Press Secretary—hates it when he does. “I couldn’t have anyone knowing, Jon, because when this gets out it’s going to be a cluster fuck, and I kind of want my father to be reelected in three years.”

“Well, of course it’s going to be a mess, the media is vicious. I already know all of this, it doesn’t mean—”

Spencer shoots off a silent prayer to no one, a simple _I really hope he’s not one of those types_ and then says “His name is Brendon.” He clenches his jaw and waits. Jon stops, mid-sentence, and sort of shifts and tilts his head just a titch, studying Spencer.

“You mean…”

“Yeah,” Spencer answers with a nod and holds his breath.

There’s a moment, one brief moment where Spencer can’t, for the life of him, figure out what Jon is thinking or where he’s going to fall on this one, but then his expression shifts again. “Oh,” he says simply, then “Okay.”

Spencer cocks an eyebrow, prompting for a bit more than that.

Then Jon sort of gets this deceptive little smirk on, and he says “I’m still going to tell your father.”

“You can’t—”

“You can’t stop me, it’s—”

“He doesn’t know, yet, Jon.” Something about the way Spencer says it must stop Jon again, because he flicks between Spencer’s eyes and then nods, slowly.

“Just about Brendon, or…”

“Any of it,” Spencer answers, quietly. Ryan shifts a little; Spencer’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even clarify to Ryan exactly how much his parents know. They talked about it a lot, during the campaign, if there was anything that Ally should know beforehand that could give the media a field day. At the time, Spencer was dating Haley and hadn’t thought it mattered. He thought his parents had some idea, back when his father was only Vice President, but then he’d started dating Amy and…it just never seemed like it was relevant.

Jon lets out a breath, and it’s like watching an entirely different person possess his body. He goes from Jon, Spencer’s lead secret service officer, to Jon, Spencer’s friend. It’s kind of a relief to see. “You could’ve told me.”

Spencer shrugs and looks away. “I know. I just—It’s him, Jon. I like it when it’s just us. Not the media, not the secret service, just us. I like not having to be the President’s son, for a few hours. He’s just—”

Ryan starts giggling, and Spencer shoots a glare at him, but Ryan just smirks at him and says “He’s just _dreamy,_ ” and bats his eyelashes. Spencer grabs the box of staples on the minute keeper’s desk and chucks it at his head. He can’t help a smile at Ryan’s squawk.

“So, why’re you telling me now?” Jon raises an eyebrow, and then leans back against the table, next to Ryan, who’s still sort of snickering under his breath. “Besides the obvious fact that you should’ve told me _five months ago._ ”

Spencer puffs out his cheeks and lets out a breath. “I’m gonna tell him.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “That’s going to go over well,” he says, but he winces as soon as he says it and sees Spencer flinch. “Sorry.”

“But you need to be there when I do.”

“Well, obviously,” Jon rolls his eyes, and it’s a rare sight, seeing him relaxed like this, a friend more than an employee. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again. The second we leave this room, I’m handcuffing you to my wrist.” The not-so-funny part is, Spencer actually thinks there’s a chance he isn’t joking.

“Jon.”

“When?” Jon asks, and Spencer can hear a bit more of the business back in it.

Spencer looks over to Ryan. They’re still debating. “He’s got his last final in a few days, so it’s gotta be after that. And probably when he’s not working for a few days, because…yeah.”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees with a nod. “I’m trusting you to handle this one, Spence. But seriously, one more step out of line and—”

“I know, I know,” Spencer whines, “you go play tattle-tale. It’s your job, I get it, and seriously. Thank you. For, you know. This.”

“Mhm,” Jon hums sarcastically. “So, you gonna make me wait until after this thing to give him the full work-up, or can I see if he’s actually a terrorist before you go over there and blow your cover.”

Spencer makes a face at that, because it makes him way too uncomfortable thinking about exactly how much power they have over this whole thing, and then says “You can look him up, just…don’t tell me anything unless he’s actually a terrorist, okay?”

Jon pauses, but nods, and Spencer finally looks back over to Ryan, trying to remember if there’s anything else they need to go over. Ryan just gives him a blank look, and then shifts his gaze to Jon. Seriously, new best friend. As soon as this is over. And, you know. When Spencer’s fixed. Eventually.

Hopefully.

 

 

 

Brendon is humming to himself, because today is a happy day, because Spencer texted him and told him he was coming over. Spencer is awesome.

Spencer also texted him half an hour later, and told him not to answer the door naked. Brendon spent literally fifteen minutes pouting and trying to figure out what he _was_ going to wear, if it couldn’t be his birthday suit.

He doesn’t know what they’re doing, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s got a few days off work, and Spencer assured him he didn’t need to dress up. They usually just hunker down on the couch, anyway. Brendon hopes he has some decent movies. They’ve burned through his collection like crazy, and they’ve already watched The Breakfast Club five times in the last month. He thinks they’re about to reach their limit (maybe.)

He’s kind of jittery, for no reason he can explain, so he fools around on the keyboard Shane got him for his birthday last year. It’s not the same as the baby grand he had back home, or even the small upright piano they have in the practice rooms at school, but they can’t fit anything bigger than this in their apartment, so Brendon tries not to complain.

There’s a knock on the door and Brendon almost misses it, because he’s right in the middle of that one part where—shit, there it goes. He lost his rhythm. Brendon sighs. He hasn’t been able to play that one right in a year. The keys on the keyboard are just too…soft. They don’t feel right, and Brendon feels a rush of longing for playing on a real grand piano again, right before he opens the door.

Brendon smiles, because it’s Spencer, and then blinks and cocks his head to the side, because Ryan and some other guy are here. That explains the no-answering-the-door-naked thing, at least. Brendon’s still a little miffed about that.

“Hi, you brought friends,” Brendon states, and then darts forward to kiss Spencer before he backs up and the three file in. He’s a little unsure of himself, mostly because Spencer is quiet and not smiling all that much, and there are these two other people here, and it’s all a little bit worrisome. “Anyone want coffee?” he asks, a little tentative, as he follows Spencer toward the table that sits outside the kitchen. He picks his own mug back up, even though it’s getting to be pretty late in the morning for coffee.

“Bren, you drink too much coffee,” Spencer says, and the hint of a smile in his voice is a relief.

Brendon grins and takes a sip, then says “No such thing.”

Ryan is as robotic as usual, sitting next to Spencer at the table. The other guy, tall and kind of scruffy, awkwardly leans against the wall next to the kitchen, watching all of them silently. Brendon’s sort of starting to feel cornered, but he tries not to let it show. He starts offering other things, though he doesn’t have much by way of food, but Spencer cuts him off. “We need to talk.”

Brendon sort of whirls on the spot to face Spencer with wide eyes, and his fingers tighten around the mug. “I don’t like how this sounds,” Brendon says, a little shaky, and his eyes dart to Ryan. No one’s giving anything away.

Spencer opens his mouth to speak again, but there is no way Brendon’s just going to let this happen. “No, no, seriously, we’re not doing this in front of people I don’t even know–” he ignores Ryan’s indignant hum, “because I’m probably going to cry and that’s seriously not fair, Spence, this isn’t—”

“It’s not that,” Spencer says quickly, and the look in his eyes stills Brendon from where he was kind of vibrating on the spot. “It’s not—Just listen, okay? Because I’ve got something I need to tell you.”

Brendon pauses to think, because what the hell? This sounds like a—a coming out, or something. But _duh,_ Spencer is into guys, because he’s dating Brendon. Brendon can’t really think of anything else it could be, unless Spencer has, like, some horrible disease and he’s only got so long to live and—okay. Okay, Brendon is going to stop thinking until Spencer gets this out. That’s the only way he’s not going to freak the fuck out.

He gives a curt nod, and clutches his mug to his chest, not really sipping anymore. He just needs something to do with his hands.

Spencer seems to struggle over words for a bit, nothing definitive, and then suddenly he’s sighing, exasperated, and then throws up his hands and says “This is ridiculous!”

He’s not really talking to Brendon, so Brendon just waits, because he doesn’t really know what to say. No thinking allowed. Just waiting.

Spencer looks over to Ryan briefly, and must see something more there than what Brendon does, because his expression shifts. “How is this even—Millions of people, _all over the country,_ news reporters coming out of _nowhere._ Fucking _crazy people_ who live in _third world countries_ and I have to sit here and actually _tell him—_ ”

“Spence,” Ryan interrupts quietly, with some sort of urgency in his voice, and Spencer deflates and looks back to Brendon. He laces his fingers over his head and presses his forehead against the laminated wood of Brendon’s table, breathing deeply. Brendon has no idea what’s going on, or what the hell that little tirade about. It’s possible Spencer really is a Russian spy.

But then Spencer sits up straight, catches Brendon’s gaze, and takes another calming breath before saying “I’m Spencer Smith, Bren.” Brendon blinks, because _fucking duh._ “ _The_ Spencer Smith,” he adds.

Brendon nods slowly. “Right,” he says, because not talking at this point is kind of off the table, now that he knows his boyfriend is mentally challenged. “I know.”

A series of very complicated expressions passes over Spencer’s face, and Brendon decides to elaborate. “You are the one and only, very _special_ Spencer Smith, and I’m sure there are many very _special_ teachers that can help remind you what your name is.” A brief smile pulls at the corners of Brendon’s lips, but it fades into a startled shock when Spencer groans and starts banging his head on the table.

Brendon just keeps staring, and he’s _really fucking confused_ , and he watches as Ryan says Spencer’s name at least three times before whacking him on the back of the head and glaring at him. Brendon’s glad somebody stopped him, because he’s kind of lost right now, and he doesn’t want his boyfriend to wind up with _more_ brain damage.

Spencer seems to pull himself together though, and then says “My father’s name is Cory Smith.”

Apparently, that’s supposed to mean something to Brendon. He’s not quite sure what, though, because he keeps staring, blankly, waiting for some sort of meaning to sink in. When it doesn’t, he shakes his head, a little confused, and says “I don’t—”

And then it sort of…does hit him. Almost. Because it happens, as Brendon remembers it, that the President’s name is Smith, and last time Brendon checked, his first name was Cory, so then…what? Spencer’s father has the same name as the President, and that’s cool and all but it’s not really– “Wait.” Brendon can feel his eyes widening, and his heartbeat in his throat.

Spencer looks a little pained, but he nods in answer to Brendon’s silent question, and says quietly “The President of the United States.”

Brendon pretty much checks out, at that point. He doesn’t really know what happens to his coffee mug, but he doesn’t hear shattered glass, so that’s good. He’s also sitting on the floor where he’d been standing before, because his legs just sort of folded under him like that. He thinks, right now, he’s looking at the legs of the chairs and table. He’s not sure.

As it turns out, the only thing it takes for him to snap out of—whatever this is—is someone saying “Bren” loud enough to reach him.

“Oh my god,” he says, absently, and then he springs to his feet and stares, wide-eyed, at Spencer, _the_ Spencer Smith, the— “Oh, holy shit.” That’s when he starts pacing, because honestly, what the _fuck?_ He— “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” He decides that’s his new mantra. He can’t seem to stop saying it, anyway. It seems aptly fitting.

Spencer’s father is the _President of the United States_. Spencer is the _First Son._ The First Son is—

“You’re gay!” Brendon states, rounding on Spencer again, because holy shit, that’s a scandal if he’s ever heard one.

Spencer mumbles something, but Brendon doesn’t really hear what it is, because he’s kind of busy pulling his hair out. Jesus Christ, if the media ever figured that out, it’d be a fucking—oh hell. That means Brendon would be, like, fucking collateral damage. There’s no way Spencer would be willing to—to—this is why Spencer’s telling him. They can’t keep doing this.

 _Of course_ they can’t keep dating. It’d be a fucking disaster waiting to happen, and oh hell, oh motherfucking—why did Spencer even _start_ this with Brendon? He just—

“You!” He turns back to Spencer again, entirely aware he’s got the wide-eyed, crazy look going on right now. Spencer looks…pained. “You!” He states, again, pointing, as if that makes any sense. “The—the diner, you just! And the merry-go-round, and—and—” And what the _hell_ was the First Son doing walking around DC in the middle of the night, without– “Where was your security?” He yells, suddenly panicking, because _oh god._ Oh god, oh god, Brendon could’ve been the only one between Spencer and a bullet, unless the secret service were fucking ninjas, and— “You were just—” he waves his hand around violently, distraught and trying to—to something. To fix this. “ _Where?_ ” he demands again.

He expects Spencer to answer, but he seems to be rather preoccupied, and instead, behind him, the mystery guy clears his throat, and says “That’d be me.”

Brendon rounds on him, then, feeling rather like a caged animal, and all he can think right now is that this guy, _this guy_ let Spencer go galavanting around without any sort of security for _months,_ and Brendon definitely doesn’t think before stomping up to him. Maybe he was going to punch him, or slap him, or just press him against the wall and yell at him for being a fucking _moron,_ but he doesn’t get the chance, because he’s about two feet away when suddenly, he’s pressed up against the wall with a strong arm, gasping for air.

“Jon!” He hears Spencer say, angrily, and then in another moment, the pressure is gone and he’s backing up again to face the room, his eyes bugging out of his skull and his thoughts a total mess. The guy, Jon, is staring at Brendon and apologizing, saying something about reflexes, but Brendon doesn’t hear it. Because that’s about the moment his eyes follow Jon’s other arm, which leads to his palm pressed flat against the top of something black, and—

“Oh my god!” Brendon says, again, and stumbles back a few steps. Somewhere in all the stumbling, he turns to Spencer again, who’s now standing a hell of a lot closer, and he glances back at the fucking _gun_ on Jon’s thigh, and “Oh my god, there is a gun in my apartment.”

Which, maybe Brendon should’ve figured that out, because the secret service is supposed to be armed, so that they can _shoot people_ who try to hurt Spencer. Because Spencer is the fucking President’s son.

And—and how the fuck did Brendon not _know_ this until now? He’s been dating Spencer for _five months,_ five whole months and he didn’t realize that his boyfriend was actually the President’s son, and okay. Okay, so he’s not into politics, and he wasn’t even old enough to vote during the election, and he doesn’t watch TV all that often anyway, and if he does it’s usually for music, but… There is no way he is this stupid. No way, he should’ve—how—

He turns to stare at Spencer again, who is starting to look a lot less like Brendon’s boyfriend and a lot more like the First Son, which is scary in and of itself. “How did I not—I didn’t know.” He thinks his voice kind of breaks, but he can’t really tell, and suddenly he’s just so—so _hurt,_ and upset, because Spencer didn’t trust him with this until now. He didn’t even trust him to come without his security in the room, and Ryan, which is like—what the hell is that? Brendon wouldn’t—he’s not a fucking _threat_ , damn it.

“You didn’t—” He swallows, licks his lips because they’re parched, and unconsciously starts backing away from them, eyes still too wide and scared, now. He’s _scared._ He’s fucking terrified. “You _lied to me,_ ” he whispers, and it fucking hurts so much, _so much._ Because Spencer, he was right there for five months, five months they spent—spent—and Brendon thought… _Fuck._

He’s going to run. He’s so ready to just, just get out, and go, and find somewhere he can think, and he’s a few steps from the door. He could probably make it, if Jon didn’t _shoot him_ or something because Jon still seems pretty worked up, and he’s one blink away from just taking off when the door opens without his help, and then Shane is walking in, frowning, and he rushes toward Brendon and asks what the hell is wrong, because Brendon is obviously upset, he doesn’t need a mirror to know that.

And then it’s a flash of movement across the room that started when the door opened, and Brendon is backed against the wall, and Jon is drawing his weapon, and Shane is turning with wide, comprehending eyes, and it’s the most ridiculous thing, it is. Because the last thing Brendon sees before he maybe, sort of hyperventilates himself into passing out, is Shane stepping in front of him and throwing up his hands, saying something like “Whoa, hey, take whatever you want.”

Then, it doesn’t really matter, because the next thing he knows, he’s laid out on his own couch with a damp towel covering his eyes, and he feels sort of stupid, fainting just because—

Because his boyfriend is the President’s son and his bodyguard just pointed his gun at Brendon’s roommate.

Okay, yeah, he doesn’t feel so bad anymore. Still, he feels a bit calmer now that he’s had a moment, and he thinks he might actually be able to only freak out a little bit right now. The first thing he hears is a murmur of voices, but he can’t really open his eyes yet, so he just listens.

“You didn’t have to yell,” a quiet voice says, somewhere to Brendon’s left.

“He aimed a _gun_ at my _boyfriend_ , forget the yelling, I’m going to _kill him.”_ That was Spencer, basically growling, and Brendon was insanely glad he’d never seen Spencer angry at him. Not like that, at least.

“Wait, I’m still confused,” Shane says, and Brendon hears his voice from right above Brendon’s head.

No one answers Shane, but a dull, rhythmic thumping starts up again, and Brendon thinks he might be able to manage consciousness again, so he grabs at his face until he can throw the towel elsewhere, and kind of sits up a little fast. It’s kind of—spinning.

“Whoa,” Shane says suddenly, and moments later he’s got Shane’s hands trying to guide him back down, but he whacks him away and waits to regain his balance, then he blinks his eyes open and…huh.

The world does not seem like such an astronomical place anymore. Brendon’s pretty sure, a little while ago, he would’ve told people the sky was falling. Possibly. He may have been a little freaked out there, for awhile.

Brendon looks around. Shane is hovering next to him, sitting on the arm of the couch, watching Brendon with concern written all over his features. Brendon’s kind of absurdly grateful that he’s here. Spencer is across from him, sitting in a chair against the wall, and he’s momentarily stopped banging his head against the wall. Brendon thinks it’s kind of funny that he’s dated the guy for five months, and he never knew about this little nervous tick. Though, apparently, there are a lot of things he doesn’t know about Spencer Smith.

Ryan is curled in on himself in the armchair to the right, staring at Spencer without blinking. It’s a little creepy, but Spencer seems to be marginally calmer with him here, so…whatever.

Jon is…not here. Brendon can’t tell if he’s relieved, or panicked. On the one hand, Spencer brought a guy with a gun into his apartment, and said guy with a gun recently pointed it at Shane, which would probably be more than enough to make Brendon pass out. If he hadn’t already been freaking out. On the other hand, the guy with the gun is here to protect Spencer, and Brendon really doesn’t want to send Spencer home (oh god, oh god, where does he even _live?)_ just to watch him get shot.

That would be bad. Very, very bad.

“Where’s Jon?” He asks, because it seems like the only sort of words he can manage right now.

Ryan says “On the balcony” at the same time Spencer snarls “Dead.”

Brendon blinks. “Is that an exaggeration?” He asks, with a tinge of a smile and a bit of the shock back in his eyes. “Because if there’s actually a dead guy on my balcony, I might start freaking out again.”

“No,” Ryan says, at the same time Spencer mumbles “I’m gonna go _shove him off._ ” Spencer shoots a glare at Ryan, apparently not a fan of being contradicted, at the moment. He doesn’t move to get up, though, so Brendon kind of hopes he won’t have to deal with any other huge announcements today.

“So!” Brendon says cheerfully, clapping his hands together, looking between everyone. They’re watching him like they expect him to go crazy at any moment. At this point, it’s entirely possible. “The way I understand it,” he starts, then points to Spencer. “You’re the President’s son, who I’ve been dating for five months without realizing. There’s a guy with a gun on my balcony, you’re here” he points to Ryan “to glare at everyone and look creepy, so far as I can tell. And you” he points to Shane “dropped by to join the fun. Is that about it?” He asks, feeling a little manic but stamping it down.

He gets three blank stares for his trouble, and then Ryan is snickering and telling Spencer “You broke him,” to which Spencer gets irrationally angry and starts banging his head against the wall again. Shane still seems sort of dumbstruck, and Brendon’s pretty sure they all need a moment, or something. Personally, he thinks he’s handling this quite well. Passing out has its benefits. Namely, calming him the fuck down.

He gets up without anyone seeming to notice, and makes his way to the door to the balcony. It’s one of the perks of this apartment. He gets a balcony in exchange for this apartment being the only one in the building with nothing but a gas fireplace for heating. Apparently, they forgot to put a radiator in here. Oops.

He knocks before he goes out, mostly because he’s starting to learn that Jon is a scary motherfucker, and could probably snap his neck without really trying. Jon turns sharply when Brendon knocks, but then nods calmly as Brendon opens the door and slips out. He slides it shut to block out the noise, grateful for the quiet, steady rush of traffic a few stories below.

It’s a tiny balcony, so Brendon’s standing right next to Jon as they both look out over the skyline. They can’t see very far, but it doesn’t matter. The spring chill is finally gone from the air, and Brendon is looking forward to summer break because—Well, he was looking forward to break. Mainly because it meant more time with Spencer. Brendon doesn’t know much of anything, now.

“Brendon, I’m sorry,” Jon says out of nowhere, turning to him and standing up straight, like he’s talking to his boss, who is probably—oh god. “I acted unprofessionally in there and—”

“It’s your job,” Brendon interrupts, confused. At least, he’s pretty sure Jon is secret service. He said he was Spencer’s security, at least. He has a gun. He’d better be the secret service, otherwise the First Son is toting some random gunman all around town. That’d probably be…bad.

Jon shakes his head. “I still should’ve acted differently. I don’t—” Jon pauses for a moment, and he drops his posture just a bit. Brendon’s glad; he really doesn’t want Jon treating him like someone he has to take orders from. Brendon’s not…he’s not the giving orders type. “It was a very intense situation,” Jon continues, “and I was already strung-out because Spencer’s been ducking out unprotected for five months–”

Brendon winces, because that’s his fault, and then gets a darker look and says quietly “I’m going to _kill him.”_ A second later, something in his brain sort of goes into panic mode, and he looks up at Jon with big, kitten eyes and says “Not really! Just—”

Jon laughs, and it’s warm and laid-back, and Brendon’s really not so scared of him anymore. “It’s okay. I’m probably going to kill him, too. We can work together.”

Brendon grins, bright and happy, and turns back to face out at the city. He likes Jon, he’s decided. Even if he’s on unsteady ground with Spencer, and Ryan has never really liked him, and Shane is probably going to kick Spencer’s ass to the curb for lying to Brendon, he’s okay with Jon. (Surprising, since about ten minutes ago, he sort of pointed his gun in Brendon’s general direction.)

Speaking of, “Can I see it?” Brendon asks, with the sort of childlike curiosity playing on his face, a grin and wide eyes. Jon looks at him, a little confused, and Brendon adds “Your gun?” tentatively. For all he knows, there’s some sort of super-secret law against showing anyone your gun, or whatever.

Jon looks at him, taken aback but there’s a grin in his eyes. “I guess,” he says carefully, and very slowly pulls the gun out of its holster, holding it gingerly in his hands with the barrel pointed outward. Logically, from all the crime shows he’s seen, he knows the safety is probably on.

It’s a very stupid question to ask, but it just seems like the sort of think you can’t help. “Is it real?” Brendon nearly whacks himself on the head when he realizes what he just said.

“Um,” is all Jon gets out before Brendon rolls his eyes at himself.

“Of course it’s real. That’s the point.” He looks it over a little more closely, because he’s never seen a real gun before and it’s kind of fascinating and kind of scary. All that power, in this surprisingly small, metal contraption. He quietly _hmm_ ’s to himself, then backs up and says “Cool.”

Jon raises a silent eyebrow, but puts it back in its holster, watching Brendon and waiting for Brendon to make a move.

He does, shrugging, says “I suppose I should go back in?” He looks to Jon, silently asking if he’s going to follow, and Jon bites his cheek. Brendon smiles, because he has a feeling, if he gets to stick around, he’s going to like Jon. At least, when he’s not being all badass and saving Spencer’s life and stuff. (He’s going to like him then, too, but he’s also going to be scared shitless.)

“I’ve been banished until further notice,” Jon says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Brendon rolls his eyes conspiratorially. He nods, and Jon adds “Just don’t let him leave without me? He’s going to try, and Ryan will probably stop him, but just in case?”

“Yeah,” Brendon smiles, warm, and then slides open the door and leaves Jon to the fresh summer air. The arguing, at least, has stopped. Shane has moved into the kitchen, apparently to find food and maybe call Regan and freak out a bit. Spencer has his arms crossed, head leaning back against the wall, and his eyes closed. He still looks pretty distressed. Ryan is sort of sulking to the side.

The thing is, he doesn’t know what to do. He feels like he should, or something, because he feels all clear-headed now that he’s gone and fainted. But he’s still hung up about the whole dating-the-President’s-son thing, which he doesn’t think is going to ease up any time soon.

He still doesn’t know what this means. Why Spencer is telling him, now. At all. Though there’s no way Brendon wouldn’t have figured it out eventually. Right?

“I still can’t believe I didn’t know who you are,” Brendon says softly, seating himself back on the couch, his elbows on his knees. He watches Spencer as he sort of startles, blinking his eyes open and fixing Brendon with a shocked stare. Brendon doesn’t think it’s fair that he gets to be shocked, today.

Ryan stays quiet and watches, giving Brendon an itching in the back of his mind, hovering just in his peripheral. That annoying bastard.

Spencer sort of shrugs, then. When he speaks, his voice crackles, like he needs a sip of water or like he just woke up. “I keep a low profile.”

Brendon nods mutely, and he can feel how withdrawn he is. He knows Spencer’s not used to seeing him like this, quiet and still and not laughing all the time or bouncing off the walls or smiling. It even feels weird to Brendon, sometimes, and Shane tells him it’s the most disturbing thing to see, when Brendon settles like this. He just—he needs time to process, and he thinks he might be in shock, and the energy hasn’t really returned yet.

Brendon feels his stomach turn over, and he clenches his teeth until it passes. When he looks back up, Spencer as staring at him with those watery blue eyes, and Brendon is fairly sure his heart is about to break. “We should—” he starts, then shakes himself a bit and starts again. “We need to talk.”

He can’t really help glancing over at Ryan, who seems completely unperturbed about watching them, and by some unspoken agreement, they both stand. Brendon walks toward his bedroom, simply because it’s the only place in the house without other people, but Ryan seems to shift a little and says “Spence—” like it’s a warning.

Spencer spins toward Ryan, and he’s practically seething, for no apparent reason Brendon can discern. His eyes widen and he takes a few more halting steps toward the bedroom, surreptitiously watching between the two of them. He swears there should be sparks where their eyes meet.

“He’s not a fucking lunatic, Ryan, he’s my boyfriend,” Spencer growls, and then stomps ahead of Brendon and into the room. Ryan looks a little shamed, but he still sends a worried look toward Brendon, and he’s not sure what to think about that. All he knows is that he didn’t want to be the cause of so much fighting, and that he doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to be Spencer’s boyfriend.

This is a minor disaster.

 

 

 

Spencer’s angry at _everyone._ He’s angry at Jon, because he’s apparently a fucking psychopath that pointed a gun at his boyfriend. If Spencer weren’t bound by some odd sense of guilt for Jon keeping his secret, Spencer would go running to his father and get Jon sent to fucking Timbuktu, or something. And Spencer doesn’t go running to his father for anything, if he can help it.

He’s angry at Ryan, for being a complete dick about this entire thing, and convincing Spencer it needed to happen in the first place, and convincing Spencer it was a good idea to let Jon in with them when both Jon and him thought it’d be better if he stood outside. And for insisting on tagging along, even if Spencer wanted it, at first. He’s mostly just angry at Ryan because when shit sucks, Ryan is always around, so Spencer’s always been angry with him. It’s familiar.

He’s angry at Shane, for walking in and making things a hundred times more confusing than they needed to be.

He’s angry at his father, for being the stupid fucking President, which isn’t really anything new. Before that, he was angry with his father for being the Vice President. Before that, he was angry with his father for wanting to run for anything at all. He thinks the last time he _wasn’t_ angry at his father was when he was nine, before any of this nonsense happened, and he was just some random Governor’s kid.

He’s angry with the rest of his family for no reason he can discern, other than the fact that they’re related to his father.

He’s mostly just angry with himself. For lying to Brendon, for telling Brendon, for fucking everything up, for making Brendon faint, for making Brendon deal with any of this, in the first place. For walking into that stupid diner on a whim and flirting with the sleeping guy behind the counter, because he was pissed off and lonely and needed someone that didn’t call him “Sir” or know who he was.

Spencer has issues.

The only person he’s _not_ angry with is Brendon, and he doesn’t think Brendon seems to get that message too clearly. Because Spencer fucked this whole thing up, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to fix it, or if he even should. Because fixing it means—well, he’s never had it fixed before. It means going into uncharted territory, and it means dragging Brendon into this, which is the last thing he wants to do.

He wishes he’d never told him, but somewhere, in the logical part of his brain that’s dead or dying right now, he knows that Brendon would’ve found out eventually. And it would’ve been so much worse if he’d found out from somewhere other than Spencer.

But— _fuck._ He wants to fix everything. He doesn’t know how. He can hardly keep himself from shaking, he doesn’t know how he’s going to manage to clean this up. Salvage it. Anything.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when there’s a hot pressure on his shoulder, but then he turns and sees Brendon, sees the worried crease between his eyebrows, and he forces himself to relax. As much as he can manage right now, at least.

Brendon sort of corrals him down onto the bed, sinking down next to him, far enough away that they’re not touching but Spencer can still feel the heat from Brendon’s skin. It’s comfort in a time when he’s about ready to rip his own skin off, just to get it to stop burning.

Brendon must understand that Spencer’s in no state to talk right now, so he asks the first question, and it’s the one Spencer honestly doesn’t know how to answer. “What does this mean for us?”

Spencer shakes his head, and he feels a bit of a shake return to his shoulders. He shuts his eyes tight and tries to keep his head from imploding. He feels like there’s far too much going on in there, right now. “I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Brendon’s silent, except for his slow, soft breaths. Spencer wishes, not for the first time, that it was an hour ago.

“I—” Brendon stops. He wrings his hands a bit, and sort of wiggles his hips to shift the way he’s sitting. He clears his throat. “Spence—”

“I guess I’ll just—” Spencer winces, because he didn’t know he was going to speak until he was, and he can’t stop himself now. “I’ll just go,” he starts to get up, tripping a little. “I’ll go, and we can just…we can pretend this whole thing never happened, and then you can go find a nice reporter in a couple of weeks and—”

Before he can get any further, there’s a hand around his wrist, gripping so firmly it hurts, yanking him backwards so he stumbles back on to the bed. He kind of flails, and then settles when he looks and Brendon is twisting to face him with the most anguished expression Spencer’s ever seen. Spencer swallows.

“I wouldn’t,” Brendon says, and his voice sounds small and scared, and Spencer hates that he did that. He never wanted to make Brendon feel like that. He—It was a fucking impulse, but it was like the best impulse of his life, finding Brendon in that diner, and just…just going. Running and running and running on forward without a second thought for what was behind them.

He wishes he didn’t have to lose this. He wishes it didn’t always end like this, with some sort of…something. It never ends well, and he knows that, but it’s just—he had hoped…not with Brendon. Brendon was different. Brendon was carousels and caramel coffee lips and turning his face to the sun despite the winter bite. He feels like he’s loved Brendon since he first saw him, tousled hair and drool on the counter, asleep on his feet with his head nested in his arms, pressed against the grimy countertop. It’s ridiculous and completely impossible. He knows this. He still can’t help feeling like this is going to steal every last bit of air from his lungs.

Fuck.

“Is that what you want?” Brendon asks, probably not for the first time, watching Spencer with an expression Spencer’s a bit too fucked up to read. Spencer swallows and props himself up on his elbows. Brendon’s trying to be gentle, and it’s killing him. He’d almost prefer the silent stoicism that Haley had, or the screaming like Amy. But no, instead Brendon was going to break up with Spencer, and he was going to be fucking _kind_ about it.

Spencer brings a hand up to rub at his face and his eyes. He can’t—if he’s going to have to do this himself, he’ll do it. He doesn’t think he can handle much more of this. He needs to get home and lock himself in his room for a few months. “Just—Can we get this over with?” He asks, briskly, and pushing down the rolling in his stomach, he sits up and then stands, facing the bed and trying to keep himself from pacing.

“What?” Brendon asks, like he’s honestly confused. Spencer fights the urge to bang his head against the wall, again, even though it got rid of his headache for brief moments.

Spencer doesn’t intend to be mean, but that’s the way he sounds because this is how he defends himself. “This is the part where you say _I’m sorry, but I never want to see you again_ and I say _Okay, fine_ and we both go back to—”

“You’d really say that?” Brendon interrupts, almost angrily, and it stops Spencer cold.

“What?”

“If I told you that, you’d just—you’d say _Okay_ and just—give up? Just like that?”

“I—”

Brendon springs upright, leveling with Spencer, and takes a step forward. “That’s a really shitty way to write off five months, Spence. _Sorry, I am who I am, enjoy the rest of your life and go to hell,_ is that it? Does that actually even _work?”_ Brendon’s furious, eyebrows drawn together and mouth shut in a tight line, and his fists clenched at his sides.

Spencer doesn’t really know what’s happening, but he says “Yes” and a second later, there’s a stinging shooting through his cheek because Brendon just slapped him.

Spencer really doesn’t know what’s going on, then.

“That was for lying to me,” Brendon says, rushed and angry, and then he’s hauling Spencer toward him, wrapping him up tightly in what must be a hug, because Spencer can’t think of anything else it could be. Even though none of this makes _any sense._ “This is to convince you that I’m not actually the asshole you seem to think I am.”

Spencer sort of tentatively pats at Brendon’s hip, which is the only place his hands can reach right now, and dumbly lets Brendon lead them both over to the bed, where they fall sideways, and Brendon manages to not really let go. Spencer just sort of floats along. He’s really lost, right now.

“I—Bren—” He doesn’t have any idea what to say, but it doesn’t matter anyway because Brendon is shushing him, curling in tightly against Spencer’s chest. And okay. Okay, maybe the sky isn’t going to fall right now.

“Do you think—” Brendon’s voice falters, and it sounds fucking _tiny,_ and scared, and weak, and Spencer hates himself all over again, now. “Maybe we can just… _not_ break up, and figure out the rest later?”

And Spencer—Spencer thinks that sounds like a really good idea, actually. He’s kind of surprised he didn’t think about that before. Probably because it wasn’t really on the list of possible solutions. Before now, that mostly consisted of a hundred or so ways for Spencer to be miserable.

He nods, then manages to rasp out “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” and he brings his arms around to Brendon’s lower back and draws them closer, Brendon burying his face into Spencer’s chest, tucked tightly under his chin.

 

 

 

When Spencer leaves, it looks like almost everyone has calmed down, thankfully. Brendon feels okay. He needs time to think, and he made Spencer promise to come by again really soon, and not try to play the martyr. Spencer is still glaring daggers at Jon, but Brendon tries to tell him in the firmest voice he can that he will actually kill Spencer himself if he doesn’t take his security with him everywhere.

Then Brendon kisses Spencer, warm and chaste, and lets him turn to go. Shane’s got a ginger ale and he’s standing behind Brendon, watching as he closes the door to their apartment, and he says “Dude, so, this has been kind of surreal.” And then he says “Bren? You gonna move, any time soon?” and then, when Brendon’s still sort of standing at staring at the closed door, he asks, worried, “You freaking out again?”

Brendon shakes himself out of it, turns to Shane with wide eyes and says “I just kissed the President’s son.”

Shane laughs at him. Brendon thinks it’s kind of unfair, getting laughed at when he’s kind of having a moment, here, and the entire day has been…whoa. He thinks he almost preferred it when Shane was shocked into silence.

“I’d wager you’ve done a lot more than that with the President’s son,” Shane says and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Brendon flushes deep red, tells him to shove it, and goes into the kitchen to get his own ginger ale. He doesn’t know when they started keeping that shit in the house, but he’s absurdly grateful for it right about now.

When he doesn’t come out of the kitchen because he is, maybe, having another mini panic attack in front of the fridge, Shane comes to find him and stops in the doorway with his eyebrows raised.

“I’m fine,” Brendon squeaks, and just to prove it, sips at his ginger ale. It calms him down a little, and he starts breathing again.

After a moment where they both breathe and drink, Shane says softly “You realize this is huge, right?”

Brendon looks over to him quizzically, because yeah, he’s seen the movies. Dating the President’s kid is always going to be a big deal. Though all the movies he’s seen are about the First Daughter, and Brendon is abruptly glad he’s not straight and trying to date one of Spencer’s sisters. One, that would just be awkward, and two, he’s pretty sure the President would have him killed. No one would ever find the body.

He nods, sort of, but Shane must not think he gets it. “If this gets out— _When_ this gets out, and it will,” and yeah, Brendon knows that, but he still glares at Shane. “It’s going to be news. Big news. There are going to be, like paparazzi and shit, and you’re going to get a lot of shit from basically every anti-gay person ever, and the whole country is going to freak out all over you for awhile.” Shane stares at him like he expects Brendon to react differently.

Brendon just nods again, and swallows, and says “Yeah, I know.”

Shane chews on his lip then, shifting awkwardly, and Brendon puts his ginger ale down and pulls his arms in closer, defensively, because he has a feeling whatever Shane’s about to say is something he doesn’t think will go down that well. “Bden, you know I love you in a totally platonic way, and I only want what’s best for you, yada yada?”

Brendon snorts and raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, so, I just…” He stops, collecting his words together. “Be honest, okay? Do you… Is he worth it?”

Brendon has to immediately stamp down the anger that flares up, because he’s known Shane for awhile, and he knows it’s not meant to make him angry, but it’s just— “Yes,” he grits out, trying to keep himself calm. “He—” Brendon stops. He doesn’t really know _how_ to describe it, because despite his penchant for Disney movies, he never actually believed in love-at-first-sight or anything, and…

Fuck, this whole thing with Spencer is entirely ridiculous. Entirely. Brendon is going to end up doing very, very stupid things for that man, and he knows he’s getting himself into something way bigger than he can imagine, and he’s probably going to hate himself at some point, but.

But Spencer’s worth it. He’s been worth it since that first night, with the omelet and the carousel and Spencer’s stupid smile. He doesn’t want to put it in words because he doesn’t know how, or if he can do it justice, but he turns out he doesn’t have to, because Shane gets it.

“Okay,” he says, and nods, and Brendon doesn’t think he said anything, so he’s confused.

“What?”

Shane just smiles, shakes his head, and walks away.

Brendon picks up his ginger ale again, sips it, and in the tiny mirror they have pinned next to the doorway, above the calendar, he catches a glimpse of his own face, and the silly smile he can’t quite manage to get rid of.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks. _We’re going to be okay._

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably going to continue. I just got here and figured it was a good stopping point for a Part 1, but I have a lot more to write in this verse. Hopefully, eventually, there'll be a Part 2 of the same length, or longer. If I don't die of carpel tunnel, or something.


End file.
